The Happiness We Must Win
by elizasky
Summary: In the aftermath of World War I, Shirley, Carl, and Una face a new world that wasn't made for any of them. Together, they must face monsters of all shapes and kinds if they hope to win their happiness. A sequel to Glen Notes, Dispatches, and One Hour to Madness and Joy.
1. Prologue

Hello again, friends!

I started this as a story about Shirley, Carl, and Una in 1939. I planned to do some flashbacks to the interwar years, but soon found those flashbacks growing beyond the capacity of the original story. Rather than cut them, I have adjusted the structure to accommodate them. I will give you a 1939 prologue, then an extended series of memories from the 1920s and 1930s (similar to _Glen Notes_ ), and then pick back up in 1939 with the story I originally set out to tell.

For new readers: this story takes place in the same close-to-canon universe as my earlier stories, _Glen Notes_ (which follows the lives and loves of the adolescent Blythes and Merediths before WWI), _Dispatches_ (a collection of letters written during the War), and _One Hour to Madness and Joy_ (M-rated short stories set during _Dispatches_ ).

As always, thank you for reading and reviewing. Your feedback means the world to me.

A special thank you to MrsVonTrapp, who has read much of this story in beta and provided invaluable feedback.

* * *

 **The Happiness We Must Win**

* * *

 _When I peruse the conquer'd fame of heroes and the victories of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals,  
_ _Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house;  
_ _But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them,  
_ _How together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long,  
_ _Through youth and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were,  
_ _Then I am pensive—I hastily walk away fill'd with the bitterest envy._

Walt Whitman

* * *

Prologue

August 1939

* * *

Shirley Blythe looked up at the sudden sound of many flapping wings. The congregation of seagulls, so placid a moment before, was beating the air, the birds squabbling frantically as they gained enough height to clear the top of the hangar, out of range of the gravel spraying from the skidding wheel of Gilbert Ford's bicycle.

"Uncle Shirley!" the boy cried, stumbling over the frame of the falling bike, but keeping his feet. "Is that it?"

Shirley smiled inwardly and wiped engine grease onto the rag hanging from the pocket of his cover-alls. "Sure is," he said, patting the pockmarked fuselage of his old Curtiss HS-2L with a nearly-clean hand. "Smoothest water landing you can make without your own feathers."

Gil rolled his eyes. "Not that old rubbish heap! The Cub!"

"Oh!" Shirley said, aping surprise. "You mean _that_?"

He gestured vaguely toward the edge of the landing strip, where a gleaming, chrome-yellow Piper J-3 Cub shone smugly in the August sunshine. Blunt wings stretched out either side of a rounded cabin painted that improbably primary shade, embellished along the sides with black racing stripes that ended in tiny zigzags of lightning. Perhaps these were meant to imply speed or agility, but paired with the Cub's eggy silhouette, the bolts conveyed only nervous energy. With a red nub in the middle of the propellor on its snub little nose, the Cub looked like nothing so much as a cartoon rabbit, poised to fly under the magical power of its fuzzy yellow ears.

" _That_ ," Gil scoffed. "Of course that!"

"Well then why did you ask?"

Gil ignored this and made for the Cub, eating up the distance with long, brisk strides.

"Oh!" he moaned, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke the sunshine struts. "Hello, gorgeous."

"It's been here all summer," Shirley said, following his nephew unhurriedly. "Unlike some."

Gil groaned. "Dad made me work in his office. Two whole months! He said he wants me to learn about Business."

Shirley chuckled softly at the capital letter in the boy's tone. Ken Ford could try to make his golden-haired, spirited son into a Man of World, but first he'd have to get him to sit still for five minutes together. The only place Shirley had ever seen Gil completely attentive was in a cockpit. Two full months in Ken's office must have had him climbing the walls.

At the moment, Gil was fairly vibrating.

"Can I fly it? Please, Uncle Shirley, please?"

"You can fly _in_ it," Shirley said evenly.

Gil's face fell. "Oh, come on. I can fly! You say so all the time. I'm a born pilot!"

"This," Shirley said, resting a strong, brown hand on the cheerful fuselage, "is not a toy."

"And I'm not a child!" Gil protested. "I'll be 19 next month. Oh, please, Uncle Shirley, I'll be careful!"

Shirley shook his head, impervious to his nephew's wheedling appeal. "Today, I fly; you observe. If you pay attention, maybe tomorrow . . ."

"Oh, I will," Gil said, already moving toward the hangar in search of goggles and flight jacket, shedding his rucksack as he went.

When he was far enough away, Shirley allowed himself a true smile. It was to good have him back.

* * *

Half an hour later, Shirley and Gil were lifting clear of the runway, climbing up, up, up into the brilliant blue of a clear summer afternoon. Shirley felt a bit cramped so close to the instruments, with Gil's knobbly knees tucked up nearly under his elbows. Still, the salt breeze blew crisply through the Cub's open cabin, cooled by the sun-dazzled waves of Four Winds harbor, mirroring the limitless possibility of the cloudless sky.

The Cub did not fly fast and it did not fly high. Five minutes after takeoff, they were barely at 500 ft, but that was no matter. No hurry. Shirley had been flying the Cub all summer, giving lessons and tours to the summerfolk and sometimes just leaving the world behind for a while. Every time he went up, alone or not, he heard good old Walt Whitman singing in his ear:

 _From Paumanok starting I fly like a bird,  
_ _Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all,  
_ _To the north betaking myself to sing there arctic songs,  
_ _To Kanada till I absorb Kanada in myself_

What would Whitman think of actual flight? Of this startling yellow absurdity hurtling through the heavens? Of this vast Canada? Shirley Blythe was not much of a one for yawping, but he resolved to sound one over the roofs of the world for Walt's sake next time he flew alone.

As the Cub swung out over the shore, Shirley spotted the unmistakable bulk of Bertie Shakespeare Drew's four black percherons, dark manes flying in the wind as they waded through the roiling surf. The storm that had pounded this coast three days past had long ago left the sky traceless, but the sea remembered. Waves crashed against the red cliffs down beyond the rock shore, sending plumes of foamy spray skyward, and even the beach-sea swirled and hissed, lapping at the horses' bellies as they dragged their traps through the swells. A storm like that tore the Irish moss from the underwater rocks and set it bobbing free in the churning sea. Then, the percherons would go to work, dredging it up from the tide in sopping traps so heavy that only the strongest animals could budge them. Bertie Shakespeare and his sons dried the stuff, baled it, and sent it off to a factory on the mainland where it had something improbable to do with canned food. They were beautiful animals, though, and Bertie was rightly proud of them.

Farther out over the harbor now and Shirley relaxed, setting the machine to cruise and looking back over his shoulder to check on Gil. His nephew flashed him a brilliant grin and a thumbs up, evidently unbothered by the cramped quarters. Shirley pulled the Cub into a lazy circle, letting it drift slow and wide over the water.

An energetic tap at his shoulder made Shirley cock his head to listen.

"Look!" Gil shouted over the whir of propellor and the rush of wind. "Carl!"

The boy gestured to starboard, indicating the distinctive green hull of the _Sweet Flag_ plowing the waves far below. Homeward bound, by the look of her.

 _Good. He shouldn't have gone out yesterday. Sea still unsettled. Blasted birds._

Shirley nodded back. Then, he dipped the Cub's nose and eased into a slow dive.

It wasn't a machine for aerial acrobatics, but it flew low and slow, perfect for buzzing by to say hello. Down and down, until they were barely a hundred feet above the sea when they passed over the _Sweet Flag_. Carl must have waved because Gil was waving back, leaning so far out of the cabin that Shirley had to roll in the other direction to maintain equilibrium.

 _I'll call later._

Shirley turned toward the coast, aiming for the Four Winds light. From there, it was only a quick jaunt over to the now-mellow green house that Rilla and Ken had bought as a summer place after Cornelia Bryant had passed. They might have preferred to take over the old House of Dreams, but that abode was occupied year-round now, a retirement home for the happy couple who had named it nearly fifty years ago. Anne Blythe had teased that Gilbert would never stop working unless he were physically separated from the Ingleside telephone. Leslie really was getting too old to travel so far in the summers anyway, preferring to spend her holidays with Persis's family closer to home, and with Owen gone, she had been happy to turn the keys over to her old friends. Provided, she said, that they looked after the roses.

Shirley craned his neck as they passed over the House of Dreams. Yes, there was Mother, the bright circle of her broad straw hat unmistakable amidst the green and partifloral of her beloved garden. She looked up at the Cub's whine and there went Gil again, insisting on testing the limits of balance.

Over the red harbor roads and toward the Glen. Past Ingleside, where the Blythe girls had already hung buntings and canopies for tomorrow's festivities.

 _At least the storm came early. Rilla would have had a fit if it had ruined her party._

But time enough for all that tomorrow. For now, the Cub soared out over Rainbow Valley, over the manse, over the village. Farther on, its shadow fell over the neighborless little gray house on the Lowbridge Road before turning toward fields and woods and marshy places where reeds grew in thick, whispering stands. Home was down there somewhere, but they had broken free of its gravity, tethered only by the promise of a warm supper when sunset had put an edge on the nipping wind. But for now, the Cub sailed on, toward an indistinct horizon where the blue of sea and the blue of sky mingled, indistinguishable one from the other.

* * *

"Can I really fly it tomorrow?" Gil asked, knees bouncing so that they rattled the teacups on Shirley's kitchen table.

Shirley scooped a short stack of letters out of spilling range and onto a nearby chair. The mail was the only thing out of place in the one-room apartment above the airfield office: clean-swept and sparsely furnished, the single bookshelf bearing one green volume and a regimented row of back issues of _Aerial Age Weekly_ , the neat, narrow bed with corners tight enough to please both Susan and the RAF.

"That depends," Shirley answered, sipping from his own cup. "Tell me, what's a good cruising speed for that machine?"

"75 miles per hour," Gil answered without hesitation.

"And how high would you take it?"

"Oh, not over 1,000 feet. Though I notice you kept us very low today."

Shirley nodded. "And your RPMs at cruising would be . . ."

Gil squinted. "2150?"

"And on takeoff . . ."

"Lift the tail first. I know! I was listening!"

"Alright," Shirley conceded. "You pass."

"I can fly?"

"Tomorrow morning. Before the party. Be here at 8."

Gil's face split in the sort of grin native to toothpaste advertisements. He took another piece of shortbread from the plate in the center of the table and crammed it into his mouth.

Shirley buried his nose in his teacup to keep from grinning back. Gilbert Ford was entirely too pleased with himself already and it wouldn't do to praise him, even if Shirley had been the fawning sort.

"I read in the paper that the RAF is doing air defense tests," Gil said through a mouthful of crumbs. "Thousands of planes flying over Britain, just getting ready."

Shirley did not reply, glad of the shielding cup.

"Do you think there'll be another war, Uncle Shirley?"

"I hope not," Shirley replied. There was no ignoring the headlines, nor the none-too-reassuring reassurances broadcast over the radio. This wasn't like last time, when all the world had been ambushed by the guns of August. This time, it stalked them in the open, as a wolfpack circling a limping calf on the tundra, the inexorable noose closing no matter which way they dashed.

 _Another war._

"What was it like?" Gil asked, shining-eyed and breathless.

 _What was it like? Even if there were words, they wouldn't make any sense to him._

"I puked a lot."

"What?" Gil recoiled, not having expected any answer, let alone one so incongruous. But how could Shirley tell him anything but the baldest facts?

Shirley shrugged. "Every time I got in a fight — a real fight — I'd puke when it was over."

Gil wrinkled his nose. But it was not every day that Uncle Shirley talked about the War at all, and Gil was not about to give up the opportunity to find out whatever he could.

"I read about you in _Flying Aces_ ," he ventured.

Shirley snorted. "Was I Kerry Keene or Phineas Pinkham?"**

"No, it was really you!" replied earnest Gil. "They publish real news, too, you know."

"Very old news, if I was in it."

"You were great," Gil breathed, gray eyes alight.

"Was I?"

Gil appeared not to hear him. "They had your picture and everything. Thirty-four kills! You were a top-10 ace!"

"That's top-10 for Canada, not the whole RAF," Shirley demurred.

"Still!" Gil lolled theatrically over the tabletop. "I want to be just like you, Uncle Shirley."

"Don't let your father hear you say that," Shirley muttered.

"What? Why not?"

Shirley was brought up short. He did not often speak impulsively, and had to cast about for an acceptable reply to cover his mistake.

"You know why everyone thinks fighter pilots are young?" he asked.

"No. Why?"

"Because they don't tend to grow very old."

Gil scoffed.

"I imagine your parents have big plans for you," Shirley persisted. "Being like me isn't any part of that."

"But you were so brave."

There it was again. That hero-worship. Flattering, to be sure, but Shirley did not need flattery. And this sort of thinking needed to be quashed without mercy.

Shirley shook his head. "No," he said. "Listen to me, Gil, this is serious. Everyone thinks a great pilot is brave. But they're wrong. A great pilot is meticulous."

He paused, checking to be sure that Gil was paying proper attention. The gray eyes were wide under their fringe of golden lashes; the boy hung on his every word.

Shirley spoke with grave deliberation, as if he could armor his nephew in good advice. "Every time you go up — every single time — you have to be in command of every detail. Aware of everything. Your surroundings. Your equipment. Your own body. You have to take risks, of course, but small ones. Well-considered. If you get reckless in a fight, everyone will talk about how brave you were while they're attending your funeral."

A flicker of fear crossed Gil's face at this last.

 _Good. He should be scared._

"That goes for ordinary flying, too," Shirley said, sitting back, arms folded casually over his chest. "Don't be brave. Be precise. Every time. Is that clear?"

Gil nodded, swallowing at the same time, so that he resembled a golden prince only recently ransomed from froghood.

"Right. Tomorrow morning then?" Shirley asked, rising to clear away the teacups.

"Tomorrow morning," Gil answered in the soberest tone in his register.

It wouldn't do to send him off hang-dog, though. He was a good kid. And there was no war. Not yet. Maybe he wouldn't need the warning.

Shirley turned back from the dishpan and clapped a broad hand to Gil's shoulder.

"You're a born pilot, Gil. And I'll make sure you're a well-trained one, too."

"Thanks, Uncle Shirley."

The boy stood and bestowed a convulsive hug, just as he had when he was a freckle-faced child, spending his summers flying balsa-wood gliders and begging for a ride in the Curtiss. Shirley held him for a moment, hoping against hope that they would have many a summer yet to let him test his wings.

* * *

When Gil had disappeared through the door, promising to return at eight o'clock and not a moment later, Shirley turned back to his solitary room. He rinsed the tea things and put away the plate of shortbread. Everything tidy now. Except . . .

Shirley retrieved the pile of mail from the kitchen chair. There was little enough of it — some circulars and bills and a note requesting a bird's eye tour of the Island. Once, there might have been an unsigned postcard from Berlin, or a pristine issue of _Der Eigene_ , useless to Shirley, who couldn't read a word of German. But it was the thought that counted. The last of those had arrived some years ago — a postcard: _You were right. No explanation necessary._ — and Shirley understood that there would be no more. On balance, he was glad for both their sakes.

Shuffling to the bottom of the pile, Shirley drew out the only letter of any consequence. He should open it, but there was really no need.

Crossing to the telephone instead, he placed a call to the little gray house on the Lowbridge Road.

"Hello? Una? Yes, I'm fine. How are you? Listen, I saw Carl coming in when I was out over the harbor . . . No, that's ok, I didn't think he'd be home yet. I was just wondering: would it be alright if I came over for supper tonight? There's something I need to talk to him about . . . No, everything's fine . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . That sounds fine . . . Alright. I'll see you at six. Thanks."

Shirley hung up and stared down at the envelope in his hand. Sighing, he ran a thumb over the logo in the corner.

RCAF: Royal Canadian Air Force.

* * *

*Walt Whitman, "From Paumanok Starting I Fly Like A Bird," _Leaves of Grass_

**Two of the long-running characters in pulp fiction series published in the monthly magazine _Flying Aces_ in the 1930s. Kerry Keene was a New York millionaire who flew secret missions for the US Department of Justice in his tricked-out plane, disguised as the masked Griffon. Phineas Pinkham was a bumbling farmboy who managed to become an ace in WWI due to his tricks and stunt-flying, rather than his faultless technique, much to the chagrin of his superiors. The fiction in _Flying Aces_ is actually super fun. Some of the recurring characters are proto-superheroes (Capt. Philip Strange is an intelligence officer with ESP; Richard Knight is an ace who loses his vision in combat, but develops the ability to see in the dark, etc.).


	2. Homecoming

Homecoming

* * *

September 1919

* * *

The buckboard wagon swayed and jolted up the hill from Kingsport harbor, sending luggage sliding precariously toward the tailgate with every bump. Carl made a grab for his rucksack as it lurched away from him, but misjudged the distance and nearly toppled over himself. Pulling the bag into his lap, Carl settled back onto the passenger bench between Jerry and Shirley, considerately giving his brother a generous allotment of the available space.

"It's amazing how much they've rebuilt already," Jerry said, surveying the extended construction zone that was the northern half of Kingsport. Newly widened streets teemed with timber-laden carts and hoarse-voiced drovers shouting to their mules. Laborers passed fresh-milled boards from one hand to another, raising skeletal roof-ribs over the ash-gray boxes that were not yet homes.

"Didn't you say they're using some sort of new material for the houses?" Carl asked Shirley, who was attempting to extricate his own rucksack from under a crate of Jerry's books.

"Yes," Shirley replied, pointing toward a mountain of dull blocks. "Hydrostone. It's a sort of compressed concrete."

"It's supposed to be fireproof, isn't it?" Jerry asked.

"Yes. The houses they build now won't burn like the old ones did," Shirley agreed. "But it's very heavy. Harder to work with than natural materials. See how they've laid out this new road running on a diagonal up from the harbor? The teams couldn't haul their carts on roads that ran straight up the hill like they used to."

"Well, it certainly is a hill," Carl observed. "Glad we don't have to carry our luggage up to the boarding house."

They had arrived by ferry an hour ago, all of them in a swirl of high spirits. Di and Faith had spent much of the voyage explaining the peculiarities of Aster House's ancient appliances to Una, while Sylvia quizzed Jem on the backstories of the Glen folk she had met at Rilla's wedding. Jerry and Nan had commandeered a table in the canteen where they had wrangled Jerry's schedule into a form that would allow him to spend at least four evenings a week at Aster House, plus Sunday dinner. The latter invitation had been extended to all Blythes and Merediths in the form of a command.

Beyond extracting a promise that yes, of course, they would attend Sunday dinner in perpetuity, no one had paid much mind to Carl or Shirley. They spent the journey on the open expanse of the upper deck, elbows brushing casually as they watched whales and gulls and scudding clouds. There had been another journey, a few weeks ago, to scout the city for housing and pay down deposits. They hadn't gone with Jem and Faith, though, on the theory that newlyweds ought to be given a wide berth.

When the ferry passed the southern tip of Kingsport on the way into the harbor, Carl had caught a glimpse of the Redmond clock tower over the canopy of lush late-summer foliage and flashed Shirley an unrestrained grin. The next four years were theirs.

At the pier, the Aster House girls had clambered into a hired wagon and waved cheerfully, Nan reminding everyone for the dozenth time that they were all expected at two o'clock the following afternoon. Jem and Faith promised they would be there, then scampered off to their little nook under the eaves of an old parceled-out mansion near the medical school. That left Jerry, Carl, and Shirley to see to their own baggage. Shirley, burdened only with a rucksack and duffel, had been for walking, but Jerry took one look at the hill rising from the wharf and hired a cart.

"Where is this boarding house of yours, anyway?" Jerry asked as they clattered past the half-built Hydrostone houses.

"Not too far," Carl shrugged.

At the margins of the construction zone, an open swath of scorched ground showed dead black against the swirl and clamor of the sprouting city. There was still rubble here, pushed into piles and awaiting removal, grim testimony to the inferno of the recent past. Charred roof beams pointed crazily skyward and here and there, a limbless stub of tree remembered what had once been a garden or a sidewalk. Carl knew that sort of hell-blasted tree too well, and turned away, directing his gaze toward the new-laid road ahead.

Soon, the cart reached a street where the houses were more than two years old. This portion of the city had been spared, but not unscathed, and anyone who could afford to move away had done so, either to the southern section of town, near Redmond, or to the modern construction on the blast site. That left north-central Kingsport somewhat shabby: older buildings, many in bad condition and indifferently managed, and too far from Redmond's campus to attract many student boarders. It was perfect.

The boarding house was the sort of place generally inhabited by people who could afford nothing better. Rotten siding dripped with moisture from the un-guttered roof, glassless windows had been boarded over rather than replaced, and an assortment of dilapidated furniture and general debris cluttered the porch. The landlord would not bestir himself for any maintenance issue short of conflagration, and then only for the insurance money; the housekeeper dashed a broom over the common spaces once every other month whether they needed it or not; the cook drove the boarders to seek sustenance elsewhere with her tooth-breaking bread and rancid butter. The inhabitants were a solitary and incurious lot who tended to remain in residence as briefly as possible.

"Is this the right address?" Jerry asked in dismay as the cart came to halt.

Carl merely shrugged, then hopped over the side of the wagon, rucksack in hand. Shirley was already heaving Carl's trunk out the back.

"The residence halls aren't bad, you know . . ." Jerry said, frowning at the crumbling front steps.

"I'm saving," Carl answered stoutly.

"For what?"

"A boat."

Jerry seemed honestly perplexed. "What do you want a boat for?"

"To watch birds."

This had seemed the safest story. Carl knew that Jerry assumed that anything to do with wildlife would be utterly divorced from discernible logic. And who really cared? They had grown up shabby and spent the last five years living in varying states of filth. If anything, the brief interlude of their time under the influence of Rosemary Meredith's wholesome housekeeping seemed the anomaly, rather than the other way around. What was it Aunt Martha used to say? You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?

Jerry shrugged. "Have it your way. Maybe ask Jem and Di to bring a round of anti-tetanus to dinner tomorrow."

Carl accepted the joke with a serviceable laugh, but applied himself to unloading his belongings as quickly as possible.

Jerry brightened, obviously having had another thought. Jerry was always having thoughts. It could become a problem.

"Say, don't you have your service gratuity?" he asked. "Isn't that enough for a boat?"

Too much logic was not good for the situation, but Carl saw no clear route out of this investigation.

"Maybe," he conceded. "But there's tuition and housing and clothes . . ."

"You have the clothing allowance, too," Jerry observed. "That's $35 on top of the $420 for your gratuity. And I know Father would pay your tuition — he told me to save my gratuity toward a house. And what about your pension? Haven't they started paying it out yet? You're in for . . . well it must be, let's see, forty percent of $600 is . . ."

Forty percent. That was how the government reckoned the loss of one eye: forty percent of maximum disability. Why forty percent and not fifty? The pension board could tot up lost teeth and mangled ears and trephine holes that were smaller or larger than three square inches of cut away skull, but there was no accounting for its algorithms. A lost nose was reckoned a sixty percent disability and what sort of job you couldn't do without a nose, Carl was not inclined to speculate. But yes, he had his pension. Sixty-six cents a day, in perpetuity, in place of the eye.*

Jerry seemed likely to persist in his financial musings until he could ferret out some kernel of sense, but was interrupted by a welcome salvo from fresh reinforcements.

"Jem got an extra $240 because he's married," Shirley said, heaving a duffel of Carl's clothes over the side of the wagon. "If you had just married Nan in the first place, she'd have gotten separation allowance all this time plus extra gratuity that you could have put toward renting a place."

"Well . . . I . . ." On the defensive now, Jerry did not have so many incisive questions. "I . . . well . . . it's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" Shirley asked, arching a skeptical brow.

"No, it isn't," Jerry said, adopting the condescension so natural to eldest siblings. "You'll understand someday."

Shirley grinned and clapped Jerry roughly on the shoulder with a broad, brown hand. "You're a patient man, Jerry."

"Yes. Well."

Carl hid a bubble of hilarity behind the last of his boxes. Three more years of waiting seemed like lunacy to him, but Jerry always had liked to do things The Right Way.

Back on the solid footing of vast experience, Jerry had found his thinking cap again. "Didn't you get a service gratuity, too, Shirley? Officer and all that? You must be able to afford better than this . . . this . . ." he gestured toward the ramshackle boarding house, unable to find a word for it.

"Ah, but you forget, I'm not a Canadian veteran," Shirley replied. "The Crown doesn't pay anything near what you Canucks are used to. The King handed me a couple of pounds and sent me on my merry way."*

"There's a proposal in parliament to top off the gratuities for Canadians who served with other forces," Jerry pointed out. "You'll get the same as the rest of us bachelors."

"I won't hold my breath for the government to give me what you've already got," Shirley said evenly. "In the meantime, a penny saved is a penny earned."

"Well, I hope you're both saving more than a penny living . . . here."

"We are," Carl chirped. "Shouldn't you get going?"

"You don't want help carrying that lot inside?"

"We'll be fine," Shirley assured him.

Jerry sighed. "Alright. Suit yourselves. Remember: you're due at Aster House for dinner tomorrow afternoon. No excuses."

"Thanks, Nan," Carl grinned.

The driver clucked to his team and Carl waved merrily as Jerry rolled away toward his residence hall.

When he had disappeared from view, Carl felt a gentle nudge at his shoulder.

"I have something for you," Shirley murmured.

"Can it wait until we get upstairs? I don't want to be arrested on my first day here."

Shirley was standing near enough that Carl could feel the soft chuckle rumbling through his chest, escaping as the barest of breaths.

"An actual present," Shirley said, brown eyes twinkling.

Carl beamed. "Let's see it, then."

Shirley undid the flap of his rucksack and drew out a brown paper sack. Heavy, by the way he held it.

Carl held out a hand and snorted at the letters scrawled across the parcel: _KIT_. Shaking his head, he reached in and drew out something long and solid and cool to the touch, though it raised the temperature of his cheeks a few degrees.

"You got me a deadbolt."

"Should we maybe go upstairs and install it?"

"Well, alright," Carl said, taking a firm hold of his trunk. "But I think I heard a rumor that we are expected at Aster House in less than twenty-four hours."

"Then we'd better get a move on, hadn't we?"

* * *

"Will you let me help you with that now?" Shirley asked after Carl had unknotted his lopsided tie for the third time.

"Fine," Carl huffed, exasperated. How was it that Shirley's tie was always so precisely perfect on the first try? Perhaps it had something to do with the RAF and military discipline, but come to think of it, the same had always been true at Queen's as well.

The echoes of those happy days in Charlottetown vibrated through the stale air of their new accommodations, recalling the boys they had been in the before-time. These digs were not notably similar to the rose-papered room at Mrs. MacDougal's, except that the two of them were there, together, behind a secure lock, with time stretching unbrokenly before them. The floor was pitted and unsettlingly sticky; the little iron potbelly in the corner was grimed with a patina of greasy coal dust many years in the making; the less said about the washroom at the end of the hall, the better. But they had hidden the grubby mattresses beneath crisp Ingleside sheets and retrieved the old tobacco-stripe quilt, and everything else could bide for a time.

Assessing the lamentable situation at Carl's neck, Shirley untied the knot and began from the beginning.

"Who's invited to dinner?" Carl asked as Shirley stood his collar on end.

"The Gagnons, I expect. Other than them, just family, I think. And Sylvia."

"You're not counting her as family?" Carl asked, enjoying the fluttering sensation of fingers busy at his throat.

"Should I?"

"Oh, honestly. Haven't you seen her and Di this whole past week? Bosom friends indeed."

"Really?" Shirley's brows shot up in genuine surprise.

"You just watch them today at dinner and tell me I'm wrong."

"I believe you," Shirley said, bending low over the red silk in his fingers. "I just didn't notice."

"Well, be sure to announce yourself before you turn any sudden corners."

Shirley slid the knot snugly upward and adjusted Carl's collar over it. "Do you think Di knows about us?"

"I think she might suspect. I caught her looking at us a couple of times. We could tell her."

"Best not." Shirley said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "You know, you could learn to do that yourself with practice."

"Then I wouldn't have the opportunity to thank you for helping me."

You would think that an evening and a night and a morning and part of an afternoon behind the deadbolt would be enough, but it wasn't, not by a long shot. For every kiss that belonged to this moment, there was another missed in the lost years that insisted on proving it had only been delayed.

"We're going to be late," Shirley grinned.

Carl slid a searching finger into the knot of Shirley's tie and tugged it loose. "Yes, I think we are."

* * *

Later, they tripped up the path to the little gambrel-roofed cottage, parting the purple sea of eponymous asters. Carl, not quite winded, but pink-faced nonetheless, leaned against the porch rail, composing himself. If he had any hope of interacting with the outside world without collapsing into giggle-drunk fits, he would need to discover some hidden reserve of solemnity, and quickly.

"You alright there?" Shirley asked, poised to knock.

It was no use. Mere eye contact sent Carl spluttering with laughter, hanging his head over the side of the porch as he attempted to get ahold of himself.

"Sorry," he gasped. "I'll be fine. Just go ahead and knock."

Instead, Shirley retreated from the door to loom just a hair's breadth too close for propriety, inclining his head to murmur, "You're sure?"

So close, he was overwhelming. It didn't matter that Carl had spent the last hour immersed in him, and many hours before that besides, nor that he would submerge again as soon as they had paid satisfactory tribute to the pleasantries of civilization. Carl looked up over the neatly knotted tie to see subtle amusement ripple across Shirley's face and pool in the deep brown eyes. At a distance of inches, it took conscious effort for Carl to overcome the pull of his gravity, postponing the moment when he could bury his face once more in the scent of fresh bread that seemed to have been baked into Shirley's very skin during his formative years in the kitchen at Ingleside.

"How long do we have to stay?"

"You need food," Shirley smirked. "Probably sleep at some point as well."

"That may be so, but I don't see what company has to do with it."

Shirley clucked his tongue in a decidedly Susanish admonition. "I thought you liked the family."

"Oh, they aren't going anywhere."

They said no more then, and if anyone at Aster House noticed that Carl was was rather quick to laugh, or that his grin was particularly bright, well, who among them wasn't glowing with the thrill of this next great adventure?

"You're happy," Una said, laying her hand lightly on Carl's arm as they set out the well-loved Ladies of Llangollen china that Sylvia had bought second-hand in the days of letters and basketball.***

Carl set down the last of the blue Staffordshire, face alight as he looked past Una, through the open doors of the dining room and toward the hearth. Jerry, sitting cross-legged on the braided rug, was supposed to be practicing his French by teaching young Claude to play draughts, but his attention insisted on wandering toward the sofa, where Nan and Marie were cooing over baby Annette and enumerating her infinite sweetnesses. In the corner, Jem and Emile occupied the armchairs, punctuating their do-you-remembers with shouts of laughter that did not seem to disturb Faith as she dozed against Jem's knee. Di and Sylvia had dragooned Shirley into carrying platters from the kitchen, their own animated chatter adding a constant patter to the chorus. Stepping toward the dining room with his burden of roast chicken, Shirley caught Carl's eye and held it.

"Yes," Carl said. "We are."

* * *

*In 1920, Canada recalibrate disability pensions to a maximum of $900, so Carl's pension will to $360 soon.

**It is true that the Canadians were notoriously well-paid, but Shirley is being a smartass here. As a Captain/Flight Commander in the RAF, his base pay and the hazard pay for flying meant that he was pulling down about as much a Canadian Major for most of 1918. He is also being provocative about marrying Nan (when? in 1914?) but that's mostly just a diversion. Thank you to kslchen for checking my numbers.

***The Ladies of Llangollen were Eleanor Butler (1739-1829) and Sarah Ponsonby (1755-1831), two Irish women who eloped to Wales in 1778 rather than be forced into marriages they did not want. They lived together for 50+ years in their little gothic cottage where they entertained Wordsworth and Shelley and Byron and were famous for wearing top hats. In the 1820s-1840s, scenes from their life appeared on china, which you can find pretty easily via Google.


	3. The First Redmond Year Opens

The First Redmond Year Opens

* * *

September 1919

* * *

Shirley Blythe folded himself into the last seat in the back row of the lecture hall, long legs bumping the underside of the tablet arm. He felt secure here, where he could survey the room from behind and above without being observed himself. No one would take any notice of him as long as he kept close to the wall and applied himself to his note-taking.

Shirley flipped open the textbook — Bonola's _Non-Euclidean Geometry_ — and admired the diagrams of curves and waves. One in particular caught his eye: the Leaf of Möbius. A simple, familiar rectangle, if given just half a twist and adhered to itself, became unorientable. Outside became inside and inside outside. _Thus on_ _Möbius_ _' Leaf the distinction between the two faces becomes impossible_.* Shirley tore a strip of paper from his notebook and found that it was so.

Other students filed into the hall, settling into the red velveteen seats, finding pencils, whispering among themselves. Fresh-scrubbed and expectant, they filled the tiered classroom with their anticipation. Shirley knew no one and no one knew him, which suited him fine.

At precisely two o'clock, the professor strode in through the side door and took his place at the cherrywood podium. He was a prosperous-looking man, red-faced with an old-fashioned walrus mustache and an expansive middle that strained the capacity of his tweed waistcoat.

"I am Professor Lloyd," he announced, "and this is the introductory course in Advanced Geometry. We have a new world to build and need engineers to build it. If you manage to pass this course, you will be well on your way to success in the profession."

Prof. Lloyd clapped his hands to punctuate this address, but did not seem to pause for breath. His words ran together in an undifferentiated ribbon like the dots and dashes of a telegraph receiver, threatening to devolve into senseless noise if the listener did not keep up.

"I will now call the names of those enrolled in the course; if you do not hear your name, be sure to visit the registrar's office immediately following class. Ainsley, Robert!"

There was a beat of silence as the students realized that Prof. Lloyd had shifted from monologue to something more participatory.

"Ainsley!"

"Uh . . . present?"

Prof. Lloyd merely grunted.

"Barnes, Mildred!"

"Present."

"Blanchet, Maurice!"

"Present."

"Blythe, Shirley!"

"Present."

Professor Lloyd stopped. He looked over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses, pausing for the first time since entering the room. "Shirley Blythe?"

"Umm . . . yes, sir," Shirley replied, sitting straighter in his seat.

"Shirley Blythe of the RAF?"

Every face in the hall was turned toward Shirley now, goggling up at the back corner. Shirley gulped. "Not presently, sir."

Any discomfort on Shirley's part was utterly lost on Professor Lloyd, who puffed his chest enough to endanger his buttons. "Well, now. Shirley Blythe of the RAF in my course!" he exclaimed. "I've read all about you in the papers, son. One of our most decorated flying aces. Must have had forty kills by the end! And a Distinguished Flying Cross to boot, isn't that right? Shirley Blythe! Shall I call you Flight Commander?"

"Just Blythe, sir," Shirley mumbled.

"Just so. Well, thank you for your service, Mr. Blythe."

"Umm . . . thank you, sir."

"Fancy that!" Professor Lloyd chortled into his podium. "Shirley Blythe! I'll be. Oh, I must tell Jeffries about this. Now, where was I. Oh, yes. Cathcart, Elizabeth!"

* * *

An hour later, Shirley burst through the doors of the engineering college and out into the September sunshine. A tide of students swept him onto the quad, where he spotted Carl standing under a nearby elm, studying something creeping along its trunk.

"Look at this," Carl said by way of greeting. "It's a brown bark carpet moth. Absolutely seamless camouflage."

"Lucky bastard," Shirley muttered.

Carl turned and looked at Shirley for the first time. "You alright? How was the first lecture?"

"The professor's an aviation enthusiast."

Carl grimaced. "Did he say something?"

Shirley did not answer right away. Instead, he looked around at the other students loitering in the slanting afternoon sunshine of approaching autumn. Most were gathered in groups of two or three, chatting merrily with friends old and new, but it could not be denied that more than a few glances drifted Shirley-ward.

"They're staring at me."

Carl followed his gaze. "Mostly the girls, I'd say," he shrugged. "And I doubt they needed some professor's help to notice you."

"He did go on a bit," Shirley grumbled miserably. "Exaggerated, too. I never had forty victories. And that goddamn DFC . . ."

"I don't think those girls care all that much about your war record."

"Don't they?"

Carl nodded toward a trio of blossom-bright co-eds walking from the opposite direction, familiar looks of interest on their pretty faces.

"Were those three in your lecture?"

Shirley looked, scowling.

"I don't think so."

"See? Noticed you all on their own, haven't they?"

Shirley sighed. "Can we get out of here? Please?"

Carl did not move. A slow smile spread across his face as he watched the approaching trio titter behind their hands.

"I've never seen a school of piranhas in the wild before. Fascinating!"

"I'm leaving."

"How long do you think it would take them to strip you to the bone?"

"Oh, stop enjoying yourself so much."

Carl grinned and wiggled his fingertips cheerily at the giggling co-eds as they passed.

Shirley caught his arm and forced it down to his side. "You'll pay for that."

"In that case, I'll do it again," Carl said, blinking with every pretense of innocence.

It was awfully difficult not to kiss him then, but Shirley was not heir and master of the the Blythe self-control for nothing.

"I just wish I had a less distinctive name," he said, releasing Carl's arm before he did anything foolish. "If I were John Blythe, no would remember my name from the papers. And even if they did, they wouldn't know for sure it was me. John Blythe. Perfectly sensible name."

Carl shrugged. "So change it."

"Change it?"

"Sure. Be John Blythe. New world and all that."

Shirley scoffed. "You can't just change your name."

"Can't you?"

"No."

Carl cocked his head theatrically. "What's _my_ name?"

"What?" Shirley squinted. He was utterly at sea for a long moment before realization dawned and he smiled for the first time that afternoon. "Oh. Do you mean _Thomas_?"

"I think I'm insulted that you have to think so hard to remember my name," Carl replied, attempting to affect offense and landing somewhere just short of hilarity.

"Sorry," Shirley chuckled in spite of himself, shoulders relaxing. "I just never think of you as Thomas."

"But I am. See? You can go by any name you like."

Shirley shook his head. "Nah. That's just the point, isn't it? I don't think I could get used to calling you Thomas even if I tried. And you could never call me John."

"I'll call you whatever you like," Carl said with an impish smirk that made Shirley shove his hands deep into his pockets for safekeeping.

"You don't have a three o'clock class, do you?" he asked lightly.

Carl grinned. "No. I'm done for the day."

"Good. Me, too."

"Then I suppose we should get started on our studying, shouldn't we?"

"Maybe somewhere with fewer people around?"

"Like the library?"

Shirley's smile tended toward laughter. "No, not the library."

"Like . . . Aster House?"

"No, not Aster House either."

"Home then?"

"Home."

* * *

A few weeks later, a crisp afternoon found Shirley lounging under a copper-gold elm on the quad across from the biology department. _Non-Euclidean Geometry_ lay open on his knee, russet cover concordant with the wooly sweaters and tweed jackets of a picturesque collegiate autumn.

It had been a long week and Shirley was eager to get home and let his guard down for a while — no pressure to perform, nor evade, nor speak any more than he wished. That thrice-damned Lloyd called on him during every single lecture, no matter how he tried to hide. Carl had suggested that he start giving incorrect answers on purpose, but Shirley doubted it would help. The man would probably just invite him in for extra tutoring.

Carl would be finishing his lab soon and they would walk home together. Maybe they'd go downtown for supper at one of the hotels, or perhaps they'd just stay in and worry about food tomorrow. The more geometry Shirley could absorb now, the less he'd have to work this weekend, leaving him free to pursue more pleasant diversions.

Thus absorbed, Shirley was surprised when someone leaned against the tree beside him, so close he could feel a brush of shoulder against his own. Not Carl, that much was unmistakable — the stranger was too large and moved with casual abandon, nothing like Carl's careful tread. Besides, he had not stopped to greet the squirrels.

Shirley looked up from his book and beheld a man he had seen several times before, though they had never spoken, let alone made an acquaintance so familiar that he should be at liberty to take a seat at Shirley's side, near enough that the sandalwood scent of his cologne overtook the more familiar odors of autumn. He was a tall, black-haired man with light brown eyes turned golden by the raking afternoon sun. His hair was pomaded into artfully careless waves over his forehead and his finely tailored suit may as well have been cut from bank statements. In his hands, he spun a boater hat of light-colored straw, bearing a ribbon of Redmond white-and-scarlet shot through with gold.

"Why, hello there!" the man said with a vulpine smile. "I saw you sitting here all alone and that will never do. I'm Wilkie. Wilkie Marshall."

Shirley was wary, but he had manners, even if Wilkie Marshall didn't, so he shook the hand that was offered to him. "I'm Shirley Blythe."

"I know who you are," Wilkie drawled. "You're a freshman, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Wilkie reclined against the tree, at an elaborate and affected ease. "Excellent. A fine time in any young man's life, freshman year. Lots of opportunities. Tell me, do you study any Greek?"

It was an odd enough question that Shirley squinted at him, discovering a glimmer of wry challenge in the flashing eyes.

"Greek?"

"Sure. Love those Greeks. Got up to all sorts of fun, didn't they?"

Shirley blinked. _He couldn't possibly be asking . . ._

In confirmation, Wilkie nudged Shirley's knee with his own and grinned, letting the touch linger.

Shirley swallowed. Quite apart from anything else, putting such a bold question to a stranger was more than a little reckless.

Across the quad, Carl emerged from the biology building with a rosy, blonde-haired girl at his side. Shirley watched as they laughed over some shared joke in parting. Carl waved a merry goodbye, then paused beneath an oak to offer some peanuts to the inhabitants.

They had been careful — _very careful_ — but perhaps it was impossible to hide from people who knew what to look for.

"Thanks," Shirley said, jerking his leg away from Wilkie's, "but I'm not interested." He flicked another glance at Carl. The direction of Shirley's attention was not lost on his new acquaintance, who turned an expert eye to appraise Carl up and down.

"I thought as much," Wilkie said, grin redoubled. "I've seen you two around and I'm almost never wrong. Well, listen, if you and Patroclus over there are looking for somewhere to let your hair down, a few of us are having a little party tomorrow evening. Friends only." He held out a thick, cream-colored calling card with an address penciled on the back.

Shirley stared at it a moment. He had a notion that friends like Wilkie Marshall were liable to be more trouble than he cared to court. But he was intrigued nevertheless.

 _A few of us. Friends only._

"Shouldn't that be _philoi_?" Shirley asked, one brown brow raised.

Wilkie laughed, an unexpectedly sweet sound. "Ooo, and clever, too. Better and better."

Wondering whether he were as crazy as his new friend, Shirley stretched out a hand and accepted the card.

"Tomorrow night at nine. Just tell the man at the door you're a _philos_ of mine." Wilkie slapped Shirley jovially on the thigh as he stood, making him jump. "See you there, Achilles."

With that, he glided away, giving Shirley no opportunity to reply.

Carl arrived in the next heartbeat, staring curiously after the dark-haired stranger sauntering across the quad, boater perched at a jaunty angle.

"What was that all about?"

Shirley flicked the invitation through his fingers, back and forth, considering. Perhaps he ought to throw it away.

"I'm not entirely sure," he mused. "But I guess we'll find out tomorrow night."

* * *

*Roberto Bonola, _Non-Euclidean Geometry: A Critical and Historical Study of Its Development_ (1912). Gilbert's textbooks (and Jerry's! and Carl's! and Una's!) are much more fun than this one.


	4. High Stakes

High Stakes

* * *

October 1919

* * *

"I see your dollar . . . and raise you three." Wilkie Marshall plinked his chips ostentatiously onto the growing pile from an unnecessary height, letting each slide down the side of the small fortune and onto the makeshift table.

The room smelled of sawdust. It was so new it was still a construction site, having walls and a roof, but no way of telling whether it might someday become a restaurant or a workshop or a dry goods store. The windows were glassless blanks of plywood, the concrete under-floor was scuffed and scratched, and a length of unconnected gas tubing hung from what would someday be a light fixture. Shirley suspected that Wilkie had slipped the foreman a generous bribe to see that the not-completely-finished building stood vacant tonight. Susan would have said he had gumption, though Shirley hoped she would never have the chance.

Tonight, the unfinished room was imperfectly lit with kerosene lanterns and crowded with a score or more of Wilkie's _philoi_. Most stood chatting in small groups, drinks held casually or faux-casually as they caught up with old friends and sized up new prospects. Others had retreated in pairs to lanternless corners or gravitated toward the jury-rigged bar under the shuttered windows. The poker table consisted of a few thick boards balanced across a pair of sawhorses with crates for chairs. The chips were real enough, though — thick, heavy clay that nestled in the grooves of the mahogany box Wilkie had produced from his leather messenger bag. The stakes were real, too.

"Too rich for my blood," declared a blond man whom Wilkie had introduced dismissively as "the Swede." He folded his hand and placed the cards beside the dwindling remains of his own stake. The others had bowed out long ago, folding or busting and going off into the party to pursue other sorts of fun, leaving only these three. It was Wilkie's deal and his game.

"Raise you another five," said Shirley, tossing a few of the chips he had accumulated over the course of the night.

"Ten."

"Twenty."

"Oh, come now," Wilkie smirked. "You can't possibly be serious. If you could only see what I've got in the pocket, you'd run screaming for the hills."

Shirley raised an eloquent brow, surveying Wilkie with a cool look that would have served as ample warning to a man who believed in such things.

"Fine, fine. Have it your way, Blythe. Call. Let's see yours."

Shirley laid down his cards one at a time. Six of clubs. Six of hearts. Jack of diamonds, jack of spades and . . .

"Full house!" whistled the Swede. "Jacks over sixes."

"Let's see yours, Wilkie," Shirley said, brown eyes a-twinkle.

Wilkie tapped his hand smartly on the table, squaring the edges of the cards and dropping them face-down.

"Beginner's luck," he scoffed.

That succeeded in drawing a small smile from Shirley, though hardly the sort of smile Wilkie had been angling for all night. It was not often that men treated Wilkie Marshall's attention as something to be merely tolerated, and he had become increasingly restive as the evening wore on.

"I have a feeling my luck will hold," Shirley said, collecting his winnings.

"Another hand, then."

Shirley looked up over Wilkie's shoulder, through the dim room and the convivial crowd, toward the lantern-lit corner where Carl was cheerfully losing yet another round of darts to Harold Noyes and Anthony Marckworth. He seemed in no way displeased by this fact, groaning theatrically as each of Anthony's well-aimed missiles drove another nail into his coffin and grinning gleefully whenever he managed to hit the board himself. By now, Carl was at least four gin rickeys deep and down to his drawers, the red tie knotted loosely around his neck, and a single sock. He couldn't afford to lose many more rounds.

"Some other time, maybe."

The Swede counted Shirley's chips and cashed him out, handing over a stack of bills that would easily cover a year's room and board — for him and Carl both. Shirley nodded his acknowledgments and departed from the table, leaving a pensive Wilkie to watch him go.

At the dartboard, Carl greeted Shirley, beaming. "I have no depth perception!" he announced cheerily, the apples of his cheeks ripe and glowing.

"Nor liver capacity, apparently," Shirley said fondly.

"Nope! Wanna play?"

"I think perhaps I'd better get you home."

"Oh, psssshhh," Carl said, attempting to swat Shirley's arm and missing.

Shirley nodded his thanks as he accepted Carl's crumpled shirt from a grinning Harold, who had preferred to give up his own trousers before relinquishing his mink stole.

"Isn't one eye supposed to be good for darts?" Shirley asked, coaxing Carl's arms into the sleeves, not bothering to search for the undershirt that must be around here somewhere.

"Is it? Well then, perhaps I am very good!"

"I'd say not."

"Oh, you don't know the first thing about it!" Carl declared. "It's very simple, really. You see, there's the red bit in the middle and round the sides you have those rectangle-thingies . . ."

Shirley bit the inside of his lip to keep from interrupting this recitation with a kiss. He worked the buttons one by one as Carl nattered on knowledgeably about _the pointy bits_ and the mysteries of scoring. Blue eye bright as a chickadee, and just as voluble, curious, friendly. Shirley wanted to pour a handful of sunflower seeds into his own palm and entice Carl to perch on his fingertips.

" . . . and _that's_ why you must absolutely keep your tie until the very last," Carl finished expertly.

"I did wonder about that," Shirley conceded.

"You don't like it?" Carl asked, holding the end of his tie up to his nose and examining it minutely.

"I didn't say that."

Carl looked up, blinking in what might have passed for flirtation had it not been so adorably sleepy. "Do you like it, then?"

"Let's get you home," Shirley murmured, hurrying to fix the last of Carl's buttons.

"Yes, please."

"You could use some sleep."

"Oh, bother sleep."

"Probably several glasses of water."

"You know," Carl said solemnly, "when a person is intoxicated, you must always stay with them the whole night and never leave, not even for a minute."

"Is that so?"

"It is. Very so."

Shirley chuckled. "Well, perhaps I'll call Una over to nurse you back to health, then."

" _Una!?_ " Carl spluttered. "You would expose a lady to such a disreputable sight? Have you no chivalry, sir?"

"Ah, well," Shirley said, settling the tie back under Carl's collar. "I suppose I will have to fall on that sword myself."

"Yes, please." Carl rose up on his toes suddenly, planting a soft, imprecise kiss that made Shirley's knees buckle.

"Enjoying the party, Meredith?" a wry voice asked from the periphery of Shirley's vision.

Carl broke the kiss and straightened his back, attempting to muster his dignity, somewhat hindered by his continued lack of trousers and the single orphan sock.

"Yes. Very much. Thank you for inviting us, Wilkie."

"My pleasure. You'll have to come again. Blythe owes me another round of poker." Wilkie smiled silkily at Shirley, who could not protest. "You know, before the war, we used to have music at these little shindigs. Perhaps next time I can arrange for some? And dancing?"

Whatever semblance of dignity Carl had gathered dissolved into undisguised delight. "Ooooo, dancing! Yes, let's!"

"Excellent," Wilkie smirked. Turning to take his leave, he nodded to Shirley over his shoulder. "Next time."

"Next time," Shirley agreed.

"That will be fun, won't it?" Carl hiccuped.

"Let's get you home, Kit."

"Yessssss."

With a wave to Harold and Anthony, Carl took a purposeful step toward the door.

Shirley called him back. "Haven't you forgotten something?"

"No. Have I?"

Shirley held up a forlorn pair of trousers.

"Oh, you can keep those. I'm sure I won't be needing them."

"To walk home?"

"You think I need more clothes?"

Shirley couldn't help laughing at the old joke. He had felt bold enough the first time he had said it, that very first night at Queen's, but it had mellowed since, becoming a staple of the peculiar patois that develops between any couple.

"In general, no," he smiled. "For the next fifteen minutes, yes."

"You have no sense of adventure," Carl sniffed.

* * *

Carl chattered all the way home through the moon-bright streets of new-built Kingsport. Luckily, few people were abroad when late turned to early, and many of them were drunk as well. Shirley shushed Carl several times, to no effect, and resolved that he must just get him back to the boarding house as quickly as possible. Progress was interrupted only once, when Carl slipped a hand into Shirley's and traced an arc over the back of his thumb, demolishing the Blythe self-control for one dizzy moment that propelled them both into the shelter of a shadowed alley for the breathless pleasure of a stolen kiss.

Past the front door of the boarding house, Carl stumbled up the narrow, greasy staircases, Shirley following along behind to make sure he didn't tumble to a broken neck. On the third floor, they reached their room: home, or as near as they could make it. The ceiling leaked, of course, and the walls bowed rather alarmingly, but they had done what they could do to make it comfortable. Shirley had spent much of the first week caulking and patching the drafty windows while Carl scoured the shabby table that served as a shared desk. The narrow beds were made up with Susan-approved linens. The room had no modern conveniences, not even piped gas, let alone electric lights, but the kerosene lamps were clean, filled, and neatly trimmed. A second-hand teakettle graced the scrubbed stove in the corner, and one of Aster House's superfluous braided rugs warmed the floor. True, there were still mice, but these tended to find their way into Carl's pockets, to be released into the park.

Shirley lit one of the lamps and settled Carl onto his bed, helping him ease out of shoes and trousers and shirt.

"You just stay here," Shirley ordered.

"Stay with me," Carl pleaded. "It's a rule."

"I'll be right back," Shirley said, brandishing the pitcher from the washbasin. "I'm going to get some water."

"Wait! You forgot something."

"What?"

"Come here. Closer."

When Shirley obeyed, Carl caught him by his own unrumpled tie and pulled him in to deliver the second half of the kiss that Wilkie had so rudely interrupted not a quarter-hour ago. His lips were warm and pliable, and he giggled at the success of his own joke.

"I'll be back in a minute," Shirley promised, rising. "But you need some water."

"Shirley?" Carl called faintly from the depths of the pillows. "I'll be right here."

"I know."

When Shirley returned, the pitcher cool and sloshing in his hands, Carl was sound asleep, snoring with the vigor of the well and truly zozzled. As quietly as he could, Shirley pushed his own bed up against Carl's and secured the frames, head and foot, with the belts they had used ever since Shirley had woken one night with a thud, having fallen through the fissure to Carl's unstoppered amusement.

Satisfied that the bedframes would hold, Shirley slipped out of his own clothes, snuffed the lamp, and slid beneath the old tobacco-stripe quilt. He propped himself against the rickety headboard and gathered Carl to rest in the hollow between shoulder and chest. Carl really shouldn't lie flat, at least not for a few hours, and he did need to be watched. If it was too dark to count every hair on his head or every errant freckle on his sun-kissed cheeks, it was not too dark to number every warm, swelling breath, regular as the lapping of waves on the sand shore.

* * *

Canada's national prohibition on the sale of alcohol was in effect from March 1918 until January 1, 1920. After that, the provinces had control of their liquor laws. Nova Scotia was dry from 1921-1930; Prince Edward Island had prohibition from 1901-1948.

Drag and cross-dressing was an important part of gay campus culture in the 1920s. Records relating to Harvard's Secret Court of 1920, which investigated, prosecuted, and expelled several students during the 1919-1920 school year, include extensive evidence that wearing women's clothing, wigs, and makeup was common among gay undergraduates, not just at the drag balls in big cities like New York and Berlin, but in dorm room parties and other private gatherings.


	5. To Make a Home

To Make a Home

* * *

October 1919

* * *

The textbook was called _To Make a Home: Basic Principles of Household Science_ by Mrs. C.B. Pemberton. It was a very impressive book. In addition to being oversize, it had a crisp black cover and multiple appendices filled with graphs, tables, and diagrams. It did not fit on any shelf at Aster House, being better suited to the cavernous Household Science laboratory where rows of metal-topped tables stared down a phalanx of gleaming ranges that had never known a kitchen. Una was forced to consult _To Make a Home_ when she was writing essays or practicing recipes, but when it was not in use, she kept it tucked safely under her desk.

Una did not precisely dislike her Household Science course, but it fitted badly, like Sunday shoes stretched to one more winter. She had known this immediately upon reading the first sentence of the first chapter of _To Make a Home_. Without preamble, it explained that, "The value of a fuel is estimated by determining the amount of moisture, of volatile matter, and of fixed carbon and sulphur it contains."* What followed in the hundreds of close-printed pages was a bewildering compilation of facts and warnings under headings like "Production of Soluble Carbohydrates in Bread Making," "Salubrious Furnishings," and "Meat: Its Uses and Abuses."

Over the past month, Una had been instructed in the preparation of meals that were not only pleasing to the eye and to the palate, but which provided a scientifically balanced ratio of proteins, carbohydrates, and fats. Her teacher, Mrs. Langevin, had drilled the class in the most modern doctrines of hygienic sanitation and optimal caloric density. Whether Una had actually learned any practical skills that she had not already mastered under Rosemary Meredith's gentle tutelage was doubtful, but her vocabulary for describing all manner of cookery and cleaning-craft was certainly becoming more formidable.

Despite this, Una felt that coming to Kingsport had been good for her education. Not the Household Science course, perhaps, but she did not spend all her time under the too-bright lights of Mrs. Langevin's classroom. It was Aster House and its people that were worth studying. Scientific formulas were well and good, but they could not account for the thousand tiny acts of comfort and connection that made the place a home. Una studied that lesson on Friday evenings, when Faith visited so that Una could help her sew tiny tucks into gossamer gowns while Jem and Di wrangled the week's histology notes into order. She saw it when Sylvia sighed in relief to find tea and sandwiches waiting for her after a long shift at the hospital, or when Jerry swept through the front door without knocking, bursting with some fresh knowledge that simply must be shared over supper. She had even learned to recognize it when Nan issued unnecessarily detailed marching orders to the week's marketing party in pursuit of the Platonic ideal of Sunday Dinner.

At the moment, Una was relieved that class was over for the week, Mrs. Langevin having dismissed them with strict orders to return on Monday having read the chapter on the "Care and Cleaning of Lighting Fixtures: Kerosene, Gas, Electric." _To Make a Home_ might lie heavy and inert in Una's arms, but the blustery afternoon was crisp and golden and she was on her way home to Aster House, to a cozy tea that would make the studying bearable.

Cutting across Redmond's windswept quad for a shortcut, Una heard someone call her name. She ducked the brim of her hat against a slanting sunbeam to find out the source: Carl, radiant as he had been all fall, though who was this with him?

"Una! Had a good week?" Carl asked, bounding along the path to her side. Then, nodding at the girl who had kept pace with him, he said, "This is Nellie Fletcher."

As slight as Una herself, but sturdier in her movements, Nellie had wide blue eyes and an abundance of honey-blonde curls that bounced as she shook Una's tentative hand.

"Pleasure to meet you," she said, dimpling. "You're the sister taking the Household Science course, aren't you?"

Una nodded politely, blinking an inquiry at Carl.

"Oh! Nellie's my lab partner," he explained. "I was just walking her home. Can we walk you, as well?"

Una demurred, insisting that no, really, that was alright and she was nearly home anyway and no need to take the trouble.

"Nonsense," Carl said, plucking _To Make a Home_ from her hands and adding it to the two biology textbooks he already carried. "It's no trouble at all. Nellie's just around the corner from Aster House."

"In that case," Una relented, "you must both stop in for tea."

* * *

The blue-black Ladies of Llangollen rode their porcelain mounts down the pastoral curve of a Welsh hillside, tailcoats and top hats crisp against the floral border of Aster House's dessert plates. Una cut a slice of Sylvia's cherry nutcake and laid it over their merry jaunt.

"What a pretty house you have!" Nellie exclaimed, accepting the nutcake and tea with enthusiasm. "Are you the one making all that lovely lace?"

Una followed Nellie's gaze to the little square table that held Nan's bobbins, frozen in the midst of outlining a large and intricate chrysanthemum.

"No. That will be Nan. My sister-in-law. She has a talent for it."

"It's beautiful," Nellie agreed, then frowned. "Sister-in-law? I didn't realize you had a married brother."

"No," Carl said, sipping his own tea. "We have two brothers: Jerry is a senior here and Bruce is only eleven. But our sister, Faith, is married to Jem Blythe, who is Jerry's best friend and Nan's brother, and Nan is engaged to Jerry."

Nellie laughed outright. "You may need to parse that for me."

"It's quite simple, really," Carl explained. "See, there's Jem and Faith . . ."

His recapitulation of the family bramble was interrupted by the door, which banged open without ceremony to admit a windblown and pink-cheeked Di. She tossed her satchel onto the stairs and shed her forest-green cardigan, shaking out the short, red curls she freed from her cloche.

"A tea party!" she said, sinking into the sofa with a sigh. "Excellent idea. Pour me a cup, will you, Una? If I never see another ulcerated liver in my life . . ."

Una cleared her throat as she passed a brimming teacup.

"Oh, sorry," Di said in Nellie's direction. "You get rather used to the medical talk around here, I'm afraid."

"I don't mind," said Nellie brightly. "I'm Nellie Fletcher."

"My lab partner," Carl added. "Biology."

Di perked up. "Biology? Wonderful! Is old Whiskers Wickman putting you through your paces? I'm Di Blythe, by the way. I'm a second-year at the medical school."

"Do you like it?" Nellie asked. "Medical school, I mean."

"It's wonderful. Well, I could do without the ulcerated livers. And why they always seem to schedule cadaver dissections just after mealtimes . . ."

Una coughed again, but Nellie laughed.

"That's alright. You won't find me squeamish. When I was a little girl, I used to go out hunting owl pellets just so that I could reassemble the tiny skeletons in my room. Our housekeeper refused to clean there; she called it The Catacombs."

Carl grinned. "Jerry would never share a bed with me. Too many snakes and toads and beetles crawling out of my pockets unexpectedly."

Di cast an interested eye over Nellie, tending toward approval. "Do you have medical aspirations then, Nellie?"

"Oh, no," Nellie smiled. "I'm a naturalist."

"And a cracking good artist," Carl added. "You should just see the watercolors she did for our botany project. I want to frame them instead of turning them in."

Nellie glowed pink under this praise, fair lashes lowered in a demure pose that did not conceal her justified pride in her talents.

"You must let us see some of your work sometime," Una said.

Further conversation was again interrupted by the door crashing open, assisted by the wind. A swirling flurry of autumn leaves accompanied Jerry into the front hall.

"You're early," Di called to him.

Jerry stepped into the sitting room, removing his hat, but not his coat. "Am I? Sorry. Nan's not home yet?"

"No," Di said. "She was going to stop at the greengrocer on Park Street on the way home. You might be able to catch her there."

Jerry's hat was back on his head before Di had finished speaking. "I'll do that! Oh, hello, Carl. Una. Miss."

When he had swept out again, leaving even more leaves in his wake, Una turned back to Nellie. "That was Jerry. Our brother."

"The one engaged to Nan?"

"That's right," Carl answered. "And Di here is Nan's twin sister."

Nellie giggled. "Perhaps I should fetch my notebook to sketch all this out."

"No, it's very simple," Carl said. "There are the Merediths and the Blythes. Jem Blythe is married to my sister Faith. Nan Blythe is going to marry my brother Jerry. Una lives here at Aster House with Nan and Di and their friend Sylvia . . ."

"And Carl lives with Shirley," Di finished for him.

"Shirley Blythe is Di's brother," Una clarified, seeing Nellie's startlement. "It was their mother's maiden name."

"Oh, that reminds me," Di said, rising from the sofa. "Carl, Susan's sent another care package for Shirley. Will you bring it to him? She'll never get over that first one being stolen from your boarding house. She mentions it in every letter."

"Who's Susan?" Nellie asked, once again enchanted with the game.

"The Blythes' housekeeper," Una explained. "Shirley has been her special favorite ever since he was a baby."

"You'd do well to take better care of her little boy, Carl," Di said, returning from the hall, "or she's liable to show up on your doorstep and give you what for."

Carl nodded meekly, accepting the paper-wrapped parcel that Di had extricated from the hall table. A blotchy flush had overtaken his cheeks and Una was dismayed to note Di peering at him with some interest.

Nellie laughed prettily. "You Merediths and Blythes are hopelessly entangled, aren't you?

"Yes," Di answered slowly, her eyes gone a soft and starry gray. "Beyond all reckoning, I'd say."

* * *

When Carl and Nellie had taken their leave, with Nellie promising to return soon because they were practically neighbors after all and of course she'd love to paint the asters while they were still in bloom, Una sought sanctuary in the kitchen. Di had offered to help wash up, but Una ducked and apologized, piling the Ladies of Llangollen higgledy-piggledy into the dishpan in a manner sure to give Mrs. Langevin palpitations.

When Di had left her to her suds, Una allowed herself a sigh. She did not dislike Nellie Fletcher. Quite the opposite. She was afraid she had not seen the last of her.

The front door clattered — really they must do something about those hinges — and impassioned voices in the hall announced the return of Jerry and Nan.

Una no longer found their sparring as upsetting as she had the first time she had heard them really lay into one another. It had been a few weeks after Jerry's homecoming in January and Una, carrying fresh towels upstairs to the manse linen closet, had been alarmed by the sound of pitched battle coming from the sitting room.

". . . certainly you don't mean to say . . ."

". . . you _would_ take that view of the matter . . ."

Una had shrunk back, not wanting to eavesdrop, but wondering how many more broken hearts she could juggle.

"The whole system of coverture was entirely at odds with individual liberties!" Nan fumed, her voice rising with every word.

"But contemporaries didn't see it that way!" Jerry shot back, exasperated. "The Enlightenment thinkers only ever intended individual liberties to be enjoyed by men!"

"That is an admirably succinct summary of _my point_!"

Oh, well that was alright, then. Una could not fathom the appeal of re-litigating every stale controversy of the past millennium or two, but when Rosemary had called them all to tea an hour later, both Nan and Jerry were glowing, and not with rage. They spent the meal with their hands linked under the table, hopelessly indifferent to anyone but one another.

Now Nan swept into the kitchen through the door Jerry held for her, letting neither his gallantry nor the overstuffed basket of vegetables on her arm deter her from her argument.

". . . may be true, but Bell's for giving women the vote. I can't see how any other issue matters. It's disgraceful that the Island doesn't let women vote in provincial elections when nearly every other province does."

She set her basket on the chopping block and punctuated her sentences by slapping kale and turnips onto the knife-scarred surface.

"But surely you can see that Arsenault was good for the Island," Jerry protested. "He was for modernizing — even lifted some of the auto restrictions . . ."**

"I'd rather have the vote than roads clogged with automobiles! Nasty, noisy things . . ."

Una did not interrupt them. She merely rinsed her hands and stepped between them as if she only meant to retrieve the kale.

"Can I help?" Jerry asked brightly.

Una sent him to retrieve the soup pot, marveling at the way he hummed on his way to the pantry and at the shining satisfaction on Nan's face as she got down to the business of dicing turnips. When he returned, Jerry built up the fire in the stove, wondering for the dozenth time whether they ought to write the property manager about installing a modern gas range. The whole city ran on gas nowadays, not just the rebuilt sections; even the Redmond residence halls had gas lines in the rooms for lighting.

"But who would come over to split kindling for us if we had a gas range?" Nan asked, conveniently eliding the fact that any masculine presence at Aster House was a very recent development and they hadn't frozen yet, not even when blasts and blizzards had sent winter howling in through the very walls.

Jerry shrugged. "No one. That's the point."

"Exactly," Nan agreed.

When turnips and leeks and stew meat had begun to simmer and Nan had moved on to mixing up biscuits, Jerry munched the end of a carrot and asked, "Who was the little blonde with you at tea, Una? A friend from class?"

Una stirred the stew unnecessarily, wondering whether they oughtn't add a handful of barley to thicken it.

"Not from my class, no," she answered eventually. "She's Carl's lab partner. Nellie Fletcher."

Jerry leaned back against the cabinets, arms crossed across his swelling chest. "Carl's? And meeting the family already?"

"No," Una said, the warmth of the stove nothing to her blazing face. "Nothing like that. I met them on my way home and invited them in to tea."

"Is she pretty?" Nan asked, rolling her dough.

"Yes," Jerry said. "She is. And a biology student?"

"I think they are only friends," Una said miserably.

Nan sank the biscuit-cutter into the dough, flicking her wrist, her neat hands flitting hither and thither as the baking sheet filled with orderly rows of precise circles. "Well, we'll see if we can't do something about that," she said.

"Matchmaking now, are you?" Jerry asked, grinning.

"It's hardly matchmaking if they've already found one another," Nan said, sliding the biscuits into the oven and dusting her hands. "Besides, my father always says _it's only happy women who matchmake_."***

Jerry caught her by the apron and reeled her in, risking flour smears for the kiss she planted on his smiling lips. "Then match away, love."

* * *

When Di and Sylvia had cleared the table and Nan and Jerry had settled in for an evening of essay-grading and note-taking, Una ascended the stairs to the blue-and-white bedroom that had once been Faith's. It was a simple room, made up prettily with muslin curtains and a cathedral window quilt Una had pieced in shades of cornflower and violet. A deep window seat looked out over Aster House's front yard where the fading farewell-summers were nodding their adieus to the silver moon.

Una meant to light the lamp and pull _To Make a Home_ from its exile beneath the desk, but she did not. Instead, her eye drifted inexorably toward the the crimson volume on the bookshelf, a splash of shocking red against the cooler wall. She did not take it down every night, not anymore. But grief was greedy this evening, and would not be denied.

Pale in the chilly glow of the autumn moon, Una curled herself into the window seat and let _The Faerie Queene_ fall open to the woodcut she knew so well. A glade. A lounging lady whose long white dress rippled like a river across the daisy-strewn grass. The Red-Crosse Knight, kneeling in his armor. She kept her letter under their unwavering gaze, hoping they would guard it from the ravages of time.

The paper was already fragile with much reading, had probably been fragile since the moment it had been written more than three years ago.

 _We're going over the top tomorrow, Rilla-my-Rilla._

It wasn't even addressed to her. Still, Una traced the script with a fingertip, placing her hand over the page where Walter's had once been.

 _I'm not afraid_ , he had written. _I've helped to make Canada safe for the poets of the future — for the workers of the future — ay, and the dreamers, too_. He had written of the _golden harvest_ they would reap, _not in a year or two, as some foolishly think, but a generation later, when the seed sown now shall have had time to germinate and grow_.

Then more of the happiness he foretold for Rilla, the promise and fulfillment of the coming years:

 _I've a premonition about you, Rilla, as well as about myself. I think Ken will go back to you — and that there are long years of happiness for you by-and-by. And you will tell your children of the Idea we fought and died for — teach them that it must be lived for as well as died for, else the price paid for it will have been given for naught. This will be part of your work, Rilla. And if you — all you girls back in the homeland — do it, then we who don't come back will know that you have not 'broken faith' with us._

They were starting in on it. Rilla and Faith married and Nan dreaming her dreams in bobbin lace. Not Di, perhaps, but didn't she spend every free hour in the obstetrical ward, bringing forth new life in her own way? Soon the generation of the golden harvest would be squalling into the world and kicking its pudgy heels against the draped folds of christening gowns. Rilla and Ken and Faith and Jem and Nan and Jerry would do just what Walter asked, telling their children the stories of those who had fought, that they had died to make the world safe for the generations they would never see. Their homes would be temples to Walter's Idea: Peace, and Safety, and above all Beauty in a world sanctified by Sacrifice and Love. They would not break faith.

Una folded the letter and leaned her forehead against the ice-bright pane. She did not need to consult the book on her knee to hear the echo of the verse Walter had read to her the day they sat together on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone:

 _The day is spent, and cometh drowsy night,  
_ _When every creature shrowded is in sleepe;  
_ _Sad Una downe her laies in wearie plight,  
_ _And at her feet the Lyon watch doth keepe:  
_ _Instead of rest, she does lament, and weepe  
_ _For the late losse of her deare loved knight,  
_ _And sighes, and grones, and evermore does steepe  
_ _Her tender breast in bitter tears all night,  
_ _All night she thinks too long, and often lookes for light._ ****

* * *

*This is the first sentence of the first chapter of Juniata L. Shepperd's, _Handbook of Household Science_ (1902), one of the Household Science textbooks I consulted while researching this story.

**In September 1919, John Howatt Bell became premier of Prince Edward Island at the head of a Liberal government, replacing the Conservatives headed by Aubin-Edmond Arsenault. Bell presided over the passage of suffrage for women in 1922 (PEI was the last province to grant women the right to vote in provincial elections, with the exception of Quebec (1940)). Thanks to OriginalMcFishie for the background on automobile restrictions in PEI.

*** _Anne of Ingleside_ , Chapter 15

****Edmund Spenser, _The Faerie Queene_ (1590), canto XV

Thanks to all for reading and reviewing, especially to the Guest reviewers I cannot thank in PMs!

Marisa, I have a little something in the works for Nan and Jerry over in _One Hour to Madness and Joy_ when the time is right.

Guest who left reviews of every chapter: Thank you so much! Those really made my day! I'm so glad that you are enjoying Carl and I promise that there will be answers to those prologue questions. You're absolutely right that the stakes were high even holding those parties. The Harvard students caught up in the Secret Court of 1920 were expelled and Harvard sent letters of non-recommendation when they tried to apply to other schools and jobs.


	6. Active Observation

**Active Observation**

* * *

November 1919

* * *

"Every great naturalist is first and foremost a keen observer," intoned Professor Wickman, tapping his fleshy fingers against the great glass bell on his demonstration table. Carl was finding it difficult to attend to Professor Wickman's instructions, lost in contemplating the man's resemblance to a harbor seal, slick and whiskery and bull-necked.

"Contrary to popular opinion," Wickman continued, "observation is an active, rather than a passive pursuit. Therefore, your assignment over the next week will be an exercise in active observation. That is to say, _drawing_."

The word roused Carl, who flashed a grin at Nellie, seated beside him at the workbench. She had a genuine talent, honed by instruction and practice, certainly, but infused with an instinctive appreciation for line and shading that Carl suspected could never really be taught.

"Glad I have you," he whispered. "My drawings are rubbish."

Nellie returned a pleased smile, but shushed gently, lest they miss more of the directions.

". . . forces us to look closely, to count, to measure, to be utterly precise . . ."

Carl cast his eye around the lab, wondering what they would be asked to draw. A fern, perhaps, or a shell? Professor Wickman had not issued them any materials; perhaps they would be allowed to go out into the world and choose their own subjects. There was a wonderful colony of wasps in the pointed arch of the door leading to the osteological collections, and if Carl did not quite feel adequate to the challenge of limning the intricacies of iridescent wings, Nellie surely was. Perhaps he could have a go at drawing the nest.

". . . due on Friday. You will be asked to submit two drawings: one dorsal view of the complete animal and one ventral view with the belly split to reveal all internal organs . . ."

Wait, _what_ were they drawing?

The students began to shuffle through their bags, responding to some instruction that Carl had obviously missed.

"Didn't you bring your sketchbook, Carl?" Nellie asked, laying hers on the bench beside pencils and charcoal.

"What? Oh, yes. It's in my . . ."

But Carl's attention was riveted to the cart that Professor Wickman's laboratory assistant was wheeling down the aisle, pausing at each workbench to deliver a tray with a glass bell like the one at the front of the room.

"Now then," Professor Wickman called over the din, "each pair will receive a single frog. In order to anesthetize your animal prior to dissection, you will soak a rag in sulphuric ether and place it under the bell. We use ether instead of chloroform because it renders the specimen pliable, rather than rigid. It also allows us to observe the action of the still-beating heart during dissection . . ."*

A shiny aluminum tray clicked down on the bench in front of Carl, making him jump backward. Under the bell, a beautiful, tawny leopard frog sat hunched against the stark metal floor, every subtlety of its intricate anatomy a profound contrast to the clean, clinical lines of the lab equipment.

"Here's your ether," the lab assistant said, holding out a brown bottle.

Carl willed himself to stretch out his hand, but without success. He merely stared from the frog to the assistant and back again until Nellie leaned over him and took the bottle.

"Are you alright, Carl?" she asked, setting the ether beside a metal tray of scalpels and probes and wicked-looking pins.

"What? Yes. I'm fine. Sorry, I think I missed what we're supposed to do first?"

Nellie drew a kerchief out of her satchel and wound it around her fair curls. "Masks first," she said, "unless you fancy inhaling ether."

"Good thinking," Carl agreed, though he made no move to tie his own mask.

"After that, we soak the cotton and put it under the bell, then prepare our colors and pencils while we wait for . . . Carl?"

Carl heard the edge of concern in her voice, but could not parse her words. He blinked slowly at the frog and the frog blinked back, its wide eyes gleaming black and gold against its glistening skin, mottled in shades of green and brown and feldgrau.

"I . . . I . . ."

Carl had meant to say that of course he was fine, but he was already stumbling back away from the lab bench. He collided with another table, setting the glassware and instruments ringing, but kept his feet.

"Carl?"

If Carl could hear Nellie's appeal, he showed no sign. Instead, he staggered for the door, wrenched it open, and disappeared into the hall.

* * *

When the doorbell rang at Aster House, Una was wrist-deep in tourtière filling. Mrs. Langevin had directed each student in the Household Science course to practice one dish she had never made before, and Una was thankful for the opportunity to enliven their inevitable potatoes with a novel preparation. Stretching a single pound of cheap ground pork into dinner for five was also deeply satisfying.

Una washed her hands in haste and was still drying them on her apron when she opened the door to let a harried Nellie Fletcher over the threshold.

"Is Carl here?" Nellie asked, omitting unnecessary pleasantries.

"Carl?" Una asked blankly. "No. Should he be?"

Nellie held up a satchel and plaid wool coat that Una recognized at once. "We were in biology lab," Nellie explained, "something happened, I don't know what, but he ran out of the room and left his things behind. I thought he would come back, but he didn't. I checked everywhere we've ever studied together and I didn't know where else to look. I don't know where he lives, so I thought perhaps I should bring this to you . . ."

"He ran out?" Una echoed. "In the middle of class?"

"Yes," Nellie said. "We hadn't even started properly and he just stood up and left. He . . . he didn't look well."

Una was halfway to the door, reaching to take her own jacket from the hall peg. "He didn't say where he was going?"

"No. He didn't say anything at all."

"And he didn't come back?"

"I waited an hour. Maybe I should have gone after him straight away. But I thought . . ."

Una held up a placating hand. "Thank you for coming to tell me, Nellie. I'll take things from here."

"Not alone you won't," Nellie declared. "I'm coming with you."

There was no time to argue. Una nodded assent and the two girls swept out of Aster House, headed north.

* * *

A block from Carl's boarding house, salvation materialized in the form of Shirley Blythe. Una had not thought she would ever be as glad to see him as she had been on the day he stepped off the train at the Glen St. Mary station, blinking in confusion at the crowd of well-wishers gathered to welcome him home. But with Carl in the wind and the prospect of arriving at his disreputable boarding house with petal-pink Nellie Fletcher in tow, Lady Una herself could not have been more thankful for the opportune appearance of her faithful lion.

Shirley was walking briskly, red scarf flying out behind his charcoal coat like a pennant, but he turned when she called his name.

"Una?" he said, crossing the street with a look of wary concern.

"Shirley! Have you seen Carl this afternoon?"

He shook his head, puzzlement written plain across his features. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe. Why don't you tell him . . ." Una had been about to turn the story over to her companion, but Shirley's guarded glance toward the interloper told her that introductions were in order.

"Forgive me," she said. "Shirley Blythe, this is Nellie Fletcher, Carl's lab partner. Nellie, Shirley."

Nellie extended a dimpled hand in greeting. "Pleasure. I've heard a lot about you."

"Likewise," Shirley said, not quite relaxing. "Sorry, I just hadn't put a face to the name. Something's wrong?"

"Carl took ill during our lab," Nellie said, holding up admirably under the sudden intensity of Shirley's undivided attention. "He ran out. I couldn't find him, so I went to Aster House for Una. We thought he might have gone home?"

"No. I've just come from there," Shirley frowned. "He was ill?"

"Something like. He went all maggot-white and left in a hurry. He never came back. I looked, but . . ."

Shirley cut her off. "What were you doing? When he left?"

Nellie faltered. "Um . . . nothing, really. We hadn't even started yet. We were supposed to be sketching our frogs, but we hadn't even killed ours yet . . ."

Shirley's eyes flew wide. "They wanted him to kill a frog?"

"Yes. Well, anesthetize it. For dissection."

Shirley muttered something that Una pretended not to hear. Without explanation, he turned to go, not along his original heading, but south toward Redmond. Una and Nellie fluttered along behind, struggling to keep pace.

At the turn for Aster House, Shirley halted abruptly.

"Go on home, Una. Take Nellie with you."

"We . . . want . . . to help," Una puffed.

"You can. Carl might go to Aster House. You'll be there if he does."

This made sense. And yet, as Una met Shirley's resolute gaze, she felt quite certain that it wasn't Aster House that Carl would reach for in his distress.

"Alright," she said. "You'll come for us if you don't find him?"

Shirley gave a curt nod. "I'll let you know either way."

Without another word, he strode off, seeming to know exactly where he was going.

Una threaded her arm through Nellie's and suggested that perhaps they should go put some water on for tea, just in case Carl did turn up.

* * *

It was not difficult to find Carl. Not if you knew him.

Shirley loped past the Redmond quad with its captive trees and through the pruned promenades of residential Kingsport until he reached the rambling park on the city's southern shore. There were lawns here, and mannerly paths, and wrought-iron benches hunkering down against the chill winds of November. But beyond the cultivated walks were half-wild evergreen groves and underbrush and a mirrored, reed-lined pond.

The water was placid today, reflecting both the featureless gray sky of oncoming winter and the sere, frost-dried husks of last summer's marsh grass. In the morning, there might have been a film of ice crusting its margins. But it was afternoon now, and the indistinct light of an implied sun would keep the pond-edge clear for a few hours more.

Shirley skirted the edge of the marsh, scanning the dismal stalks until he spied a patch of warmer golden-brown. Approaching, he shrugged off his coat and placed it over Carl's hunched shoulders. Carl did not flinch, but neither did he move his gaze from the placid waters of the pond. Even when Shirley sat down on the matted fronds beside him, it was a long while before he spoke.

"Do you remember the time I brought a frog to Sunday School?" Carl murmured. "It hopped out of my pocket while old Jane Drew was hearing lessons. _I popped it right back in again. It didn't hurt anybody — a poor little frog!_ ** I guess you wouldn't remember, though. We weren't friends then."

"I do remember," Shirley said, leaning back on his palms. "We heard about it down in the primer class. You were quite a hero to us."

"Really?"

"Sure. We all figured we'd be spanked within an inch of our lives if we ever pulled a stunt like that. Even Susan wouldn't have been able to excuse it."

A grudging acknowledgement twitched across Carl's face, fading before it could coalesce. "I didn't know any better. It was just a friend to me."

They slipped back into parallel silence, so still for so long that a wandering shorebird with a long, curved bill passed directly in front of them, startling when it realized that they were not part of the landscape. Wary, it beat mottled wings in an awkward takeoff, fighting for altitude before lurching away toward the shore with a plaintive, warbling cry.

Sensing a chance, Shirley asked, "What kind of bird was that?"

"Curlew."

"Not the most graceful flier is it?"

"They get by."

Shirley groped for some way to widen this sliver of conversation, but Carl spared him the trouble.

"I'm never going a naturalist," he said bleakly. "I'm not even going to pass freshman biology if I can't . . . can't . . . _prepare specimens_."

Shirley scrutinized the pale face, with its mouth tucked in at the corners and dark lashes lowered like a portcullis. "You shouldn't have to."

"But I do. And I just . . . _can't_."

Carl bit down on the last word, jaw clenched against a tremor. But what was the use of that facade, here at the pond-side?

Shirley stretched out a long, strong arm and wrapped it around his own coat, pulling Carl's rounded form toward him.

"You don't have to kill anything. Never again."

It was too much and not enough; too soon and far, far too late.

* * *

At dusk, Shirley knocked on the door at Aster House. Di answered, frowning when she saw that he was alone.

"It's alright," Shirley said. "He's at home. I just wanted to tell Una so she wouldn't worry."

"Shirley?" Una appeared at Di's side, with Nellie hovering behind.

"Come inside," Di said, swinging the door open and steering Shirley by the elbow.

He did not resist, but said, "I can't stay. I just wanted to keep you all from worrying."

Di looked him up and down with a thoroughness Shirley recognized as diagnostic, but she seemed satisfied. Shirley thought she was on the point of asking him a question, but Nellie preempted her, bounding over to the armchair where Carl's coat and schoolbag rested in a tidy heap.

"You must bring Carl his coat," she said. "He left so suddenly."

"Thanks," Shirley said, accepting both coat and satchel. "And thanks for fetching Una earlier."

"He's not awfully sick, is he?" Nellie implored.

Shirley reached for an expression he sincerely hoped would read as a smile. "No. He's fine. Just resting."

"Well, tell him from me not to worry a bit about the lab work. Tell him I outlined the sketches already and he can just copy from mine if he wants."

"Thanks, Nellie."

Shirley turned to go, nearly knocking a basket from Una's hands.

"Take this, too," she said, dark blue eyes more resolute than wistful for once. "Supper."

Under normal circumstances, Shirley might have protested that they were fine and could take care of themselves, but the stress of the afternoon, the sliver of flint in Una's gaze, and the aroma of warm biscuits rising from the basket combined to dissolve his objections.

"Thanks."

Arms full, Shirley nodded his goodbyes to the room and followed Di to the door and through it. He was surprised when she pulled it snugly shut behind her.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she asked, the tilt of her head absurdly like Dad's, for all she resembled Mother otherwise.

Shirley had never seen Di in doctor mode, but it was unmistakable. He might have smiled under other circumstances. "He's alright. Just upset. He'll be fine."

Di rested a slim white hand on Shirley's forearm. Her gray eyes were serious, but soft with tender concern. "It's sometimes very difficult," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "to care for someone you love when they're ill. You'll fetch me if you need help?"

Shirley tried to answer, but words had deserted him, traitorous as ever.

"Day or night, Shirley," Di pressed, never breaking eye contact. "It's no trouble."

Shirley's mouth clacked dry, but he could not even formulate an evasion. Useless anyway, it seemed. He couldn't imagine that Una had betrayed them, but the alternative seemed somehow worse. If Di and Wilkie could both tell at a glance, and now others knew as well — Harold, and Anthony, and the Swede . . . Shirley didn't even know the man's real name. That suddenly seemed a ridiculous dereliction. Too many people, too many variables . . .

Di withdrew her hand and Shirley found his tongue at last, his voice an arid croak. "Is it so obvious?"

Di smiled a warm, fond smile flavored with a hint of delight and a pinch of sympathy. "No, honey. You're alright."

"You won't . . . tell?"

She gripped his arm again, tightly enough that Shirley could feel each finger through the thick wool of his coat.

"Never. You listen to me, Shirley Blythe: if you ever need anything — _anything_ — money, a place to stay, an alibi . . ."

Shirley was not quite sure if the sound he made was a chuckle or a sob, but it was a relief either way. He dropped his encumbrances onto the porch floor and pulled his sister into a deep, strong hug.

"Anything," she repeated from the depths of his coat. "I'm at your service. Sylvia, too."

Shirley dropped a kiss on her curly red head before he released her. "You should go inside," he said thickly. "It's freezing out here."

"Alright," she agreed, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "But only because it's your supper getting cold, not me."

"Thanks, Di."

"Shirley?"

"What?"

Di grinned, wrinkling her shapely nose. "I'm so happy for you!"

Shirley blinked. Slowly, his own smile unfurled across his face until he matched her expression. "Thanks," he said, a bit uncertainly. "I'm happy for you, too."

Di laughed and gave him a little shove, by which Shirley understood that he was dismissed. Di did not go inside, but watched as Shirley took up his burdens again and walked out into the gathering night. Shirley felt her gaze upon him and thought how odd it was to find comfort in being seen.

* * *

*Bertram Garner Smith, _Laboratory Guide for the Study of the Frog: An Introduction to Anatomy_ (1917)

** _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 23: "The Good-Conduct Club"


	7. Our Own Languages

Our Own Languages

* * *

December 1919

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Shirley sat at the oak table in the big kitchen at Ingleside, peeling potatoes. He had not asked Susan whether he could help, knowing that she would refuse. Instead, he had merely plucked a knife from the block and settled into the chair across from hers, giving her no time to object.

Shirley had cheated Susan last summer in his starvation, always running off with his fishing tackle at dawn and only occasionally surfacing for meals. Susan had never complained. She had packed picnics and laid out fresh clothes and gloated over him when he deigned to show up for supper.

Things were different now.

Shirley came to this holiday already replete. For the first time since Carl had graduated from Queen's, Shirley was not searching out hidden places or existing between stolen moments. They had to be apart for these few weeks, yes, but it was a finite separation, like a satisfying day's work with the promise of home and hearth at the end. Carl had promised he would send Una to Ingleside if he had an attack or a nightmare, but so far, so good. Thus, Shirley found himself able to enjoy Ingleside and the people in it more than he had in many years. It was as if in being full himself, he suddenly had excess to bestow on others.

Susan was the primary beneficiary of this abundance, but not the only one. Shirley helped Nan tune the piano and hiked off with Jem to cut holly and evergreen boughs. When Anne could not find the brass candlesticks she wanted for the bayberry tapers, Shirley searched from cellar to garret until he found them hidden in a box of unused picture frames in the spare room closet. No one could remember when Shirley had last played a game of chess with Gilbert, but they went 3-3 in the week before Christmas. Shirley even coaxed Jims, visiting for the holiday, to let Rilla have a nap one afternoon, swinging the shrieking child onto his shoulders and tramping off to the Glen Pond to challenge Carl and Bruce to a hockey match. No one had bothered to teach Jims how to skate before, which was a crying shame for a five-year-old, but by the end of the afternoon he was wobbling creditably under his own power. He even managed to slap a shot at Carl, who bungled the save with broad theatricality, collapsing to the ice lamenting his failure, much to Jims' delight. When they climbed back up the hill to Ingleside, hale and crimson-cheeked in the purple dim of a December evening, Anne was startled to find that her youngest son had inherited the Blythe grin after all.

Now Shirley sat across from Susan, dismantling the potato pile one peel at a time. He watched her covertly, comforted to find that she seemed largely unchanged. The spiky knot of gray hair was just the same as ever, the work-worn hands were just as steady, the questions just as shrewd.

"You're getting along in your studies?" Susan asked, her knife flashing eel-like through the mud-brown potato skins.

"I'm keeping up," Shirley assured her.

"And the courses? They're not too difficult?"

Shirley reached for another potato. "They aren't easy. But I enjoy them, and I'm getting good marks."

Susan, who had only a vague idea of what engineering entailed, grunted her satisfaction. "What will you do after college?" she asked. "Build bridges and roads?"

"That's civil engineering," Shirley said, infinitely patient. "I'm studying mechanical engineering. Machines. Engines. Aeronautics."

"Aeronautics? So you're going to build aeroplanes, as well as fly them?"

"Maybe. But that's a long way off. For now, I'm just getting to grips with the basics. I have courses in physics and free-hand drawing and analytical geometry . . ."

"Geometry?" This from Anne, who had just entered the kitchen bearing the remains of Jims's tea. "He must have gotten that from you, Susan, never me."

"Indeed not, Mrs. Doctor Dear," Susan scoffed. "I have no head for mathematics."

"But you do," Shirley protested. "Baking is math and materials science, with a little chemistry thrown in. It's quite like engineering, really. I'm sure anyone who could have built Rilla's wedding cake from scratch could build the Eiffel Tower."

"Well, it's true enough that not everyone has a hand for baking, especially wedding cakes" Susan said, endeavoring to affect modesty when she was beaming from the tips of her fingers to the top of her bun. "Still, I never had any fancy schooling and I'm sure I couldn't understand half of what you're learning nowadays, even if you explained it to me a hundred times over. I am an old maid, not an engineer."

Shirley stopped his peeling, looking over the pile of potatoes with an expression of gentle fondness. "You're sufficient as you are, Susan."

At the sink, Anne turned to study her son. It was not so unusual for the denizens of Ingleside to sprinkle their conversation with poetry, but most quotations announced themselves in rhythm or rhyme. Not Whitman, though. Susan had not even noticed the reference, though perhaps she would not have scolded her little brown boy for speaking in poetry even if she had.

"Do they keep you awfully busy with mathematics, darling?" Anne asked cautiously. "Or do you have time for other subjects?"

"I do have some electives," Shirley confirmed, returning to his work. "All the engineers have to take Military Science, but I'm exempt because I outrank the instructor and that would never do. We have a choice between French and German . . ."

"German!" Susan exclaimed, hacking off a slice of peel with quite a lot of potato still stuck to it. "Do they mean to make a Hun of you at college?"

"German science is very important," Shirley explained. "Just ask Dad. They're quite advanced in physics, medicine, manufacturing . . ."

Susan harrumphed. "Much good may it do them."

"Don't fret, Susan. I'm studying French."

Anne tied her own apron and began to cut the peeled potatoes, plunking them into a stock pot for boiling. "It sounds as if you have rather a lot of coursework," she said. "I hope you make some time for a bit of fun as as well."

Shirley hummed something like assent, but Susan spared him the necessity of replying in detail. "Not too much fun, mind," she said, knife biting deeply into her potato. "Girls these days talk something scandalous. I overheard Amy Taylor talking to her chum at Carter Flagg's store the other day, saying she meant to make up for lost time now that the boys were all home. I imagine the Kingsport girls have much the same idea, and that you may tie to."

"And why shouldn't they, Susan?" Anne asked. "I think all our young folks are entitled to a little happiness."

"Indeed they are. But from what I hear, co-eds these days are apt to do nothing but flirt."

"They must study a little," Anne said with a smile.

"Precious little," sniffed Susan.*

Shirley, devoutly thankful that his thoughts were his own, placated Susan with a warm smile. "I can promise you, Susan, I'm quite devoted to my studies."

* * *

St. Elizabeth's Anglican Church in Lowbridge was a treasurebox: fieldstone walls set with gem-bright windows, mosaic floors in ochre and cream with flashes of mother-of-pearl, cherry-wood pews carved with deep moulding and rose roundels. Every wall was stenciled with scrolled psalms in gold and crimson, and geometric patterns interrupted only by bronze memorial plaques, themselves richly embellished. Una loved the apse best of all, the exposed beams of its rounded peak interspersed with a stained-glass choir of pre-Raphaelite angels, all flowing robes and unbound hair in jewel tones so rich you could nearly taste them.

It had scared her at first. The differences between St. Elizabeth's and the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian Church were not merely aesthetic. Wasn't it frightfully wicked to expend so much energy on material splendor? After all, what did anyone need other than the Word and divine Grace?

But from the day she had stepped over the threshold and into the candle-lit sanctuary, St. Elizabeth's had enveloped Una as only the soul's own home could. She had attended St. Elizabeth's a few times with Rosemary over the years, but she had only started coming on her own during the winter of 1916. When Rainbow Valley had grown cold, and her lonely vigils under the Tree Lovers began to turn her fingers blue despite mittens and muffs, she had sought refuge here. She could have gone to sit in the Presbyterian church, she supposed. But its stark lines and simple geometry did nothing to satisfy her, to say nothing of the awful new memorial tablet on the wall above the Blythe pew, _Sacred to the Memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe_. He had no other monument, no known grave. Perhaps someday she could face that grim cenotaph with equanimity. But not yet.

On this Christmas Eve, Una arrived at St. Elizabeth's long before the service started. She had been away for months, yearning for this place, though she felt as if she oughtn't. In Kingsport, Una attended All Saints Cathedral every Sunday, but she still wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The soaring ceilings and white pointed arches always made her feel insignificant, but in an oddly pleasant way. Sometimes, when she lifted her eyes up and up and up, a little shiver of sublimity transported her out of ordinary space. All Saints sounded lovely, too. Una liked especially when the men's choir sang, accompanied by the magnificent Casavant organ with a voice like the sea. After years of listening to members of the Glen St. Mary Ladies' Aid warble through the psalms with more enthusiasm than grace, a chorus of Alleluias ringing through the arcades of All Saints resounded like a heavenly host.

On the other hand, All Saints was cold. The interior was restrained, with unembellished white arches and tiers of glass windows that were mostly clear. Plain wooden benches set across the nave would have been at home in any meetinghouse, and were even plainer than the box pews of her father's church. If the Cathedral sometimes made Una feel tiny in a glorious, exalted sort of way, it could also make her feel tiny in a puny, lonely sort of way.

Not like St. Elizabeth's. Una had feared that it would have lost its magic, but that worry had dissolved the instant she arrived. Everything was just exactly the right size, and if the acoustics were perhaps less sublime, Una was happy to trade them for this snug security.

Now, she sat under the stained glass window depicting St. Elizabeth of Hungary, crowned and regal, her skirt held out before her like a basket, bursting with her miraculous roses in vivid red and white. Father Kirkland had told Una the story of the roses, how Elizabeth's family did not approve of her charity toward the poor and outcast, so that she had to smuggle bread out of the castle to feed the hungry. When her husband passed her on the road and demanded to know what she concealed beneath her skirts, Elizabeth had cast off the covering to find the loaves miraculously transformed into roses.

Una sat a long while under St. Elizabeth's beneficent gaze, holding each of her own secret burdens before her for a moment and feeling them lighten as if shared. It shouldn't work this way. She should be able to trust in God alone and not need any sort of intercession. She knew that _an infinite Power must be infinitely little as well as infinitely great_ , but Una still liked the idea of saints more than she thought she ought to.** God was God, but St. Elizabeth was a friend.

Absorbed in her meditations, Una did not hear Rosemary approaching her pew, and jumped when she sat down beside her.

"I thought I might find you here," Rosemary smiled. "How is St. Elizabeth today?"

"Quiet."

"That's a relief, I'm sure."

Una returned Rosemary's smile. It was.

"I always liked this pew," Rosemary said, sliding her hand across the gleaming wood. "It was my mother's favorite. After my brother died, she would come here to pray. So I always feel close to her here."

Una nodded, but did not reply. She felt an odd blockage; she could always tell Rosemary things, but she had fallen out of practice.

Rosemary knew her well enough to see that something had gone unsaid. "I remember you once told me that you used to read your mother's recipes," she said gently.

"Yes," Una said. "But not since you came to us."

"Do you have a place where you remember her?"

Una considered this. She had often wondered what it would be like to visit Maywater and Mother's little grave there. A foolish thought — she could never ask Father to make such a journey. Besides, the place should not matter.

"I used to go into the spare room closet and touch her wedding dress," Una admitted. "But only when life was _too_ hard."

"Did that help?"

"A bit."

Rosemary nodded. "I used to come here quite a lot. Especially after I lost Martin."

Her tone had not varied and she gave no indication that she had said anything of consequence, but Una's heart leapt. They had talked of many things over the years, but never of this. Rosemary had opened a door and Una was grateful for the invitation, but she felt she must decline it.

"The place shouldn't matter," she said, knowing that this was not really what Rosemary had meant. "God is everywhere, so everywhere is sacred. The place — the _things_ — shouldn't matter."

"Do they?

Una was reluctant but honest. "Yes."

"I remember when you gave Bruce your christening gown. That mattered, too."

"Yes."

"There's nothing wrong with having sacred things, Una."

Una bit her lip. "It just seems . . . blasphemous. To love _things_."

"I don't know if love can really be blasphemous," Rosemary said judiciously. "As long as it is sincere, and not idolatrous. Love is God's presence, isn't it? If you feel love in a particular place, perhaps God is speaking to you there."

"How can you tell?" Una asked. "How can you tell that it's God speaking and not just your own weakness wanting things?"

It was a serious question and Rosemary answered it seriously. "I've found that God speaks to us in our own languages," she said. "He speaks to your father in books, because He knows that that's where he can hear Him. He speaks to Carl in little creatures. I think, perhaps, that He spoke to Walter in poems, or maybe in flowers."

"Both, I think," Una murmured, so low that Rosemary could barely hear her.

"Is it so strange that He should speak to you in beautiful houses?"

Una frowned. "Houses?"

"This is God's house, isn't it? A bare, plain meetinghouse is excellent for focusing your mind on a text with nothing to distract you. Here . . ." Rosemary gestured to the sanctuary around her, the mosaics of lilies and golden roses, the stenciled walls, and woodwork polished to a living sheen, the very air a kaleidoscope of color from the opalescent windows, ". . . every inch of this house has been wrought with care and love. Every tiny tile has been laid deliberately, even the ones under the pews where we never see them."

As Rosemary spoke, two women approached the altar and knelt at the chancel rail. When they had prayed, they disappeared into the sacristy, returning with their arms full of vestments. Working together in perfect silence, they draped the altar in white and gold, smoothing and straightening every wrinkle. Una watched them dip and weave, dancing reverently back and forth as they prepared for the service. There were half a dozen layers under the chalice and at least as many over it, all placed just so and covered with the snowy linen of the chalice veil. When the linens were finished, the women set the altar with white tapers in high silver candlesticks and arranged evergreen wreaths and poinsettias before it. They prayed once more, kneeling together, and departed as silently as they had arrived.

Una sat for a long moment, contemplating the altar.

"When I was a little girl," she said, "I used to brush Father's best suit on Saturdays. When I could find the clothes-brush, that is."***

"I'm sure you did a lovely job, dearest."

"No," Una said, smiling regretfully. "I didn't. I once sewed on a button with coarse white thread. I didn't know any better, but Mary Vance — that is, Mary Douglas — says people talked about it for years."

"I suppose you did need a little guidance in the particulars," Rosemary smiled. "But you gave all you had. That's what God asks of us."

Una frowned, considering her next words carefully. "Rosemary?"

"Yes, dearest?"

"Do you think Father would be awfully cross if I joined St. Elizabeth's? As a real member? To take communion and everything?"

Rosemary took Una's hand in her own. "You know he wouldn't be."

"But it might embarrass him," Una said, flushing. "People would talk . . ."

"Let them."

"I couldn't do anything that's likely hurt him in the congregation . . ."

"Una," Rosemary said, gently, but firmly. "Your father won't care about anything except your happiness. If you feel that St. Elizabeth's is the right congregation for you, he'll be pleased and never even notice if anyone objects."

"But Miss Cornelia . . ."

"Will keep a civil tongue in her head."

Una doubted the probability of this, but was heartened by Rosemary's support.

"I think," she said, "I think I may talk to Father Kirkland about it. Before I go back to Kingsport."

Rosemary beamed. "I think he's been waiting for you."

* * *

* _Anne of the Island_ , chapter 2, "Garlands of Autumn"

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 19, "They Shall Not Pass"

*** _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 4, "The Manse Children"


	8. Canonical Stories

Canonical Stories

* * *

December 1919

* * *

On Christmas Day, Ingleside teemed with merry guests. No fewer than three fat geese graced the dining table, which groaned with the bounty of Susan's tireless labor. Despite the December chill, someone had cracked the windows to relieve the heat of the overstuffed room where Blythes, Merediths, and their various associates tucked into butter-roasted squash, cranberry dressing, and biscuits so high and light they seemed to evaporate.

Una Meredith sat somewhere south of the mashed potatoes, letting the chatter of the merry crowd wash over her. At one end of the long table, Dr. Blythe was laughing into a napkin, red in the face at a story Di was telling with elaborate hand gestures. At the other, Uncle Norman and Nan were engaged in a fierce debate on a topic Una could not quite discern, with Aunt Ellen and Jerry interjecting at intervals. Directly across from Una, Mary Douglas was leaning over Ken Ford to give some sage advice to Rilla, who was attempting to convince Jims to eat something other than bread.

"Will you please pass the gravy?" asked Bruce at Una's elbow.

Una obliged, feeling a wistful tug to see him grown so poised. She had only been away for four months, but they had been enough to make her notice that Bruce's face was no longer quite so round as it once had been and that his sturdy limbs had grown noticeably long. His letters were no longer the childish scrawls he had sent off to Carl and Jerry and Faith during the war, but proper missives in which earnestness and still-uncertain spelling inspired many a fond re-reading at Aster House.

Bruce poured a generous helping of gravy over his heaped plate, earning himself a chuckle from Jem beside him.

"Eat all that and you'll be as tall as I am by New Year's," Jem smiled, nudging Bruce in the ribs.

"I don't think so," Bruce said, blinking soberly. "Carl and Jerry aren't any taller than Father and I don't expect I will be either."

"You never know," Jem said, mirroring Bruce's solemnity. "I'm as tall as my father, but Shirley's got us both beat. You never can tell about younger brothers."

Una smiled to see Bruce consider this pronouncement with the seriousness due any pearl of Jem's wisdom. He was still a little boy after all, hanging on his hero's every word, his adult height still hypothetical.

Turning to her left, Una was equally pleased to find her other younger brother industriously devouring a pile of green beans. She noticed that Carl had not taken a serving of goose, filing the information away in her catalog of family preferences.

Sometime after the plates had been passed for seconds, a chime of silver against glass interrupted the half-dozen simultaneous conversations. All attention focused on Dr. Blythe, standing at the head of the table, smiling with his whole posture.

"I wanted to thank you all for celebrating with us today," he began. "I can't think of any better Christmas gift than to have you all here. To see you all in the bloom of health and youth and vigor, resuming your studies and beginning families of your own . . ." he paused and grinned at Mrs. Blythe beside him ". . . it's everything we ever wanted for you all."

"Hear! Hear!" bellowed Uncle Norman, drawing a sprinkle of laughter from the assembly.

Dr. Blythe cleared his throat. "Of course, our joy will always be tempered by the chair that must remain forever vacant. But I hope . . . we hope . . . that all of you, and your sons and daughters down through the generations, will keep faith, and will live your lives in love and peace. That is what Walter fought for . . ."

At this, Dr. Blythe faltered, and Una felt her heart lurch to see his handsome face fall and stutter and fall again.

In the lapse, Jem rose to his feet. "To Walter," he said, holding his own glass steady before him.

"To Walter," the company echoed.

Una's lips shaped the words, but she could put no force behind them.

"To Walter," Dr. Blythe repeated, his own hand gone to Mrs. Blythe's. "And to all of you. May God bless you and keep you safe always, and bring you all back to this table next year."

"I suspect we may need a few more chairs by then," Uncle Norman chortled, "though how we'll fit them in, heaven only knows."

Dr. Blythe grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling. "I tell you, Norman, it's the best problem to have."

* * *

Later, when those who could extricate themselves from their seats had cleared the dishes and Susan had carried in a plum pudding that was the last word in puddings, a simultaneous lapse in several conversations highlighted Miss Cornelia's piercing indictment.

". . . got what he deserved, if you ask me."

"Now, now, Cornelia," Rosemary said. "It wouldn't do to be uncharitable, even in his case."

Una looked down the table to find her father looking distinctly uncomfortable, while Miss Cornelia's eye gleamed with righteous certainty.

"Who's gotten what he deserved?" asked Jem, seemingly eager to hear the latest Glen news.

"Josiah Pryor," said Miss Cornelia. "Surely you've heard what he was like during the war."

"Well, I haven't," piped up Jim Anderson, balancing little Jims on his lap.

"Nor I," agreed Jerry. "I seem to remember something about a war wedding . . ."

"That was Miranda Pryor," Rilla explained. "She wanted to marry Joe Milgrave, but Whiskers-on-the-Moon wouldn't allow it, on account of Joe being a soldier and Mr. Pryor being an avowed pacifist."

"Weren't there two war weddings in that family?" Dr. Blythe asked through a grin at Susan. "One successful and the other only narrowly averted?"

"Narrow fiddlesticks," Susan shot back hotly. "I have never been so insulted in my life as when that . . . that . . . _pacifist_ . . . marched into my own kitchen and thought I'd be pleased to have him as a guest, let alone a husband!"

There was laughter around the table, but Una hunched her shoulders. She did not much like talking about Mr. Pryor or his fate, let along hearing others laugh over it, and was anxious for them to move on to another subject. Unfortunately, the company had gotten its teeth into the topic and seemed unlikely to relinquish such a juicy morsel until it was bled dry.

"You must heard of the union prayer meeting, Mr. Anderson," said Miss Cornelia. "In the spring of 1916?"

"I don't believe I have."

"Oh, not again," protested Mrs. Blythe, and for half a heartbeat, Una thought that they might desist. But the tepid plea went unheeded by the general assembly and Mrs. Blythe seemed resigned to hearing the story once more.

 _Every village has its own little unwritten history, handed down from lip to lip through the generations, of tragic, comic, and dramatic events. They are told at weddings and festivals, and rehearsed around winter firesides. And in these oral annals of Glen St. Mary the tale of the union prayer-meeting held at the Methodist Church was destined to fill an imperishable place.*_

"The county battalion had finished training in Charlottetown that winter," Dr. Blythe explained, leaning avidly over his pudding to begin the story. "And all the Four Winds boys were home on their last leave."

"It was Mr. Arnold's idea," Miss Cornelia cut in. "He thought we ought to have a union prayer meeting — Presbyterians and Methodists together — to send them off."

"I agreed to it," Father mumbled, sounding nearly as miserable as Una felt. "I thought there couldn't be any harm in it."

Uncle Norman shook his shaggy red head. "It wasn't your fault, John. No one blames you. It was me that caused the ruckus. And you can blame me all you like, because I'd do it all over again."

"I've missed something," Jerry said. "Why was a pacifist at a khaki prayer meeting?"

"Why indeed!" Susan agreed. "Why indeed! _The minute I saw that man coming into the Church, looking like that, I felt that mischief was brewing_."

Dr. Blythe smiled indulgently at Jerry. "Your father had asked the congregation to make a good showing. Even Miss Cornelia was in attendance, and we knew things must have come to a pretty pass when she deigned to darken the door of the Methodist church."

"It was only a prayer meeting," that good lady interjected, "not a Sunday service. Besides, it seemed there was _no sense in hating Methodists when there was a Kaiser or a Hindenburg in the world_."

"Right you are," Dr. Blythe agreed. "In any case, the meeting was very well attended. And wouldn't you know who was sitting right up front in his crisp black suit and his best white tie but old Josiah Pryor."

"Looking _more sanctimonious than ever_ ," Susan grumbled.

"Well, after Mr. Meredith and Mr. Arnold had both given fine addresses, Mr. Arnold asked Pryor to lead the gathering in prayer."

" _No gumption_ ," Miss Cornelia muttered darkly. "No gumption at all."

Dr. Blythe did not contradict her. "So Mr. Pryor stood up before God and the Glen and said, _Let us pray_ , and proceeded to lay out the most infuriating prayer anyone ever heard. He prayed that _the unholy war might cease_ . . ."

Susan chimed in: " _That the deluded armies being driven to slaughter on the Western front might have their eyes opened to their iniquity and repent while yet there was time_ . . ."

Miss Cornelia took up the standard: " _That the poor young men present in khaki, who had been hounded into a path of murder and militarism, should yet be rescued_ . . ."

"Well I tell you," said Dr. Blythe, eyes twinkling, "the whole room was in complete shock. Of course, no one likes to make a scene in church, no matter the provocation. Lucky for us, Norman here is a heathen."

"Too right," agreed Uncle Norman. "I couldn't let him go on like that, could I? _Yammering and yodeling and yawping sedition and treason_? It was an insult to every man in the Commonwealth!"

Dr. Blythe fidgeted with anticipation. "So Norman stands up like a thundercloud and shouts . . ."

Norman Douglas obliged, making the Ingleside dining room ring with the echo of his famous words: " _Stop — stop — STOP that abominable prayer!_ "

Laughter swept the room. Una reached instinctively for Carl's hand beneath the tablecloth, only to find that he was simultaneously reaching for hers. She glanced at Carl out of the corner of her eye, trying to read the expression muffled by his eyepatch, and caught Shirley doing the same, a little frown etched into the corner of his mouth.

"I tried to stop him," Aunt Ellen gasped through tears of glee.

Dr. Blythe was grinning. "You did try, Ellen! And so did John. But no use. Norman just bounded up to the front and caught up _fat, pompous little Whiskers-on-the-moon_ by his collar and started shaking him like _a huge mastiff might shake an overgrown puppy_."

Carl clenched Una's hand, but there was nothing she could do but hold tight as the storytellers shouted out their favorite of Uncle Norman's epithets.

" _You malignant carrion!_ "

" _You pig-headed varmint!_ "

" _You putrid pup!_ "

" _You pestilential parasite!_ "

" _You indecent reptile!_ "

" _You Hunnish scum!_ "

" _You whited sepulcher!_ "

This last from Uncle Norman himself, who brought down the house with his reenactment. Laughter ran round and round the table, doubling over on itself as people began to laugh at the laughter itself. Even Father chuckled, infected by the uproar.

Una did not laugh. Neither did Carl, who had gone white to the lips. If she closed her eyes, Una could still see Mr. Pryor, frightened, humiliated, and alone. Not even Una had stood by him, to her everlasting shame.

When the merriment had subsided into sighs, Mrs. Blythe spoke over the residual mirth. "Really, now," she scolded, though her face was soft with affection, "I was not present at that prayer meeting, but I have heard enough about it over the years. And it seems to me that the proper thing to do would have been to let Mr. Pryor alone and let John have a word with him afterward."

Dr. Blythe nodded. "Yes. _That would have been the proper procedure_. Norman, your _performance was utterly improper and scandalous and outrageous; but by George_ ," he _threw back his head and chuckled_ , " _by George, Anne-girl, it was satisfying_."

This sent the table off into another round of guffawing. It was a full minute before Shirley spoke from Carl's other side, his voice not noticeably ruffled by recent hilarity. If others at the table missed the tension in his face, Una did not. "What became of Mr. Pryor?" Shirley asked. "You said he got what he deserved?"

"Yes, dearie," Miss Cornelia sniffed, wiping a tear with her handkerchief. "The man had a paralytic stroke just after the Armistice."

" _I'm not saying it was a judgment on him,"_ Susan added, _"because I am not in the counsels of the Almighty, but one can have one's own thoughts about that_."*

* * *

On Boxing Day, Carl curled up before the fire in the manse sitting room, a new book spread on his lap and one of Cecilia Meredith's crocheted afghans tucked around his legs. Una had offered to stay with him, but he knew she was anxious to get over to St. Elizabeth's. She had attended Father's Christmas Day service out of a sense of duty, but she had a meeting with Father Kirkland today and Carl wouldn't have her miss it on his account. Besides, all he needed was a bit of rest. In truth, it did him good to see her drive off, tucked cozily into the sleigh with Rosemary, the blue coat and the red vivid against the snowdrifts.

Shirley had come and gone as well, bringing a spice cake — from Susan, he said — as if the manse needed more baked goods. Carl had offered his most convincing reassurances, though he could not hide the dark smudge of sleeplessness around his eye. Shirley was not deceived, but went away reluctantly at dusk, having long overstayed a casual visit.

Now Carl had a warm fire and a free evening and the book: _Walden_ by Henry David Thoreau. It was a Christmas gift from Nellie: _Merry Christmas to my favorite lab partner. Yours truly, Nellie, 1919_. Carl had only had it in his possession for a week, but he was already going back to sections for second and third readings. In particular, the chapters on Thoreau's practice as a naturalist had caught Carl's attention.

 _As for fowling, during the last years that I carried a gun my excuse was that I was studying ornithology, and sought only new or rare birds. But I confess that I am now inclined to think that there is a finer way of studying ornithology than this. It requires so much closer attention to the habits of the birds, that, if for that reason only, I have been willing to omit the gun._ **

Here was an ethic of naturalism that Carl could wrap his mind around, one that required attention to animal behavior rather than killing and classifying specimens. He had passed the introductory biology course after all, his written work being exemplary and Nellie being generous to a fault in letting him study the anatomy of frogs and rats from her excellent drawings. Nellie was, in the parlance of Glen St. Mary, a brick.

She was also a fan of Thoreau and had been shocked when Carl told her he did not know _Walden_. Thus the Christmas gift. Carl had heard of Thoreau in passing, but had not given him much thought, having gotten the impression that he was some sort of eccentric hermit. But there was much more to _Walden_ than that. Thoreau was not a recluse — _I had three chairs in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society_ — but preferred to live with as few encumbrances as possible, as close to the animals of Walden Pond as he could manage. Carl had chuckled over some of the passages, wondering what Una would make of Thoreau's indictment of conventional domestic arrangements:

 _And oh, the housekeeping! to keep bright the devil's doorknobs, and scour his tubs this bright day! Better not keep a house. Say some hollow tree; and then for morning calls and dinner parties! Only a wood-pecker tapping._

Well, Carl thought, a rustic cabin at the pondside might not be for him either, but there was something to all this. He was not entirely sure exactly what it was, but it went deeper than ornithology.

No one born on the Island could be a stranger to Temperance, but Carl had never before encountered an ethical _objection to animal food_. He doubted whether he could ever ascribe to Thoreau's asceticism, but Carl found himself reading and re-reading the passages on _a more innocent and wholesome diet_. He resolved to ask Shirley whether this reverberation was what he felt over his Whitman.

A soft sound at the sitting room door made Carl look up from his book to find a dark, glossy head peeking cautiously around the jamb.

"Bruce?"

"I thought you might be asleep," Bruce said, shuffling over the threshold.

Carl smiled. "I'm not. Come sit with me."

He untucked the afghan, holding it open to admit his brother. Bruce wriggled in eagerly, nestling himself in the cocoon of Carl's warmth.

"What are you reading?" Bruce asked.

Carl settled the blanket over both of them and balanced the book between. "It's called _Walden_ by Henry David Thoreau."

"What is it about?"

"Many things," Carl replied. "Thoreau went off to live by himself in the woods on the shore of Walden Pond. He wrote about his life there."

"He lived all by himself?"

"Well, people came to visit him. He wasn't alone. And he had the animals, of course. Shall I read you some?"

Bruce snuggled down, resting his head on Carl's shoulder. It was a childish pose for eleven, but Carl had not been home for eight or nine or ten, and eleven was not so very old after all.

Carl scanned the pages, looking for a passage Bruce would like. When he found it, he grinned and cleared his throat:

 _One day when I went out to my wood–pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a duellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my wood–yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black._

"What's a myrmidon?" Bruce asked.

Carl considered for a moment. "Have you heard of the Trojan War? In ancient Greece? You won't study the _Iliad_ and the _Aeneid_ until you go to Queen's, but maybe you've heard of Agamemnon and Hector and Helen of Troy?"

Bruce scrunched up his face, thinking. "Is that when they had the giant horse all full of soldiers?"

"Exactly. Well, in the Trojan War, one of the Greek heroes was named Achilles."

"Oh, I've heard of him," Bruce said with enthusiasm. "The only way to hurt him was in his heel."

That was not, in fact, the only way to hurt Achilles, but Carl nodded and kept on with the story.

"Achilles was a prince and a general. His soldiers were called the Myrmidons because the god Zeus had created their nation from a colony of ants, and the Greek word for ant is _myrmex_."

"You remember all that from Queen's?"

"I remember the parts about ants."

"So the Myrmidons were ant soldiers?"

Carl laughed. "No, they were men. It's mythology, remember? The Myrmidons were excellent soldiers. The best. Although," Carl paused, "in nature, soldier ants are all female. I don't suppose Homer knew that, though."

Bruce turned back to _Walden_ , more interested in the ant battle than the biology lesson. "How did it turn out?"

 _On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely . . . They fought with more pertinacity than bulldogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle–cry was "Conquer or die." In the meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hillside of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus._

"What's a patroclus?"

The question echoed. For a moment, Carl could see quite clearly the names in neat, white chalk on the blackboard at Queen's, just as he had first seen them, and felt the same wariness.

Bruce bent over the page, pointing to the passage. "It says that the red ant was like Achilles coming _to avenge or rescue his Patroclus_."

No sense in dissembling. Bruce would be off to Queen's himself in a few short years. Carl took a steadying breath and gave the answer his Classics teacher had given. "Patroclus was Achilles' lifelong companion and dearest friend."

"Was he a soldier, too?"

"Yes."

"Was Achilles able to rescue him?"

 _Ah, poor wretch, even Achilles, for all his valour, availed thee not . . ._ ***

"No."

Bruce frowned. "Well, did he avenge him at least?"

It was a famous story. Part of the canon everyone studied in school. Carl chose his words carefully.

"Yes, he did. After Hector, the prince of Troy, killed Patroclus, Achilles was very terrible in his grief. He killed Hector."

Carl did not tell the rest of the story: how Achilles had fallen on Patroclus's lifeless body and refused to relinquish it, forbidding the cremation and shearing his own hair in anguish. He did not tell how Achilles had impaled noble Hector through the neck and taunted him as he died — _I would carve your flesh and eat it raw for what you have done to me_ — and then dragged his corpse behind his chariot round and round the walls of Troy to shame Hector and all his family. He did not tell of Achilles' berserk rage in the battles that followed, nor of his murder of the boy-prince Troilus at the altar of Apollo, daring the god to strike him down for his sacrilege, nor of his final wish, to be buried with Patroclus, their ashes mingled, commemorated in a single tomb.

"Did the Greeks win the war?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," Carl said faintly. "But at an awful cost."

"Was it as bad as our war?"

Carl swallowed. "I think every war is probably terrible for the people who fight it. Their war was so awe-inspiring that the poets made it into a story that we still read thousands of years later. I don't know if our war will be remembered like that."

Bruce frowned thoughtfully over the page. "I don't ever want to be a soldier," he said quietly.

Carl laid his cheek against the dark head. "You won't be."

"I could be," Bruce said earnestly. "I'll have to if there is another war when I'm grown up. I'd have to fight or else be a coward."

Carl reached across the afghan and took Bruce's hand in his own. "You know, Henry David Thoreau was a conscientious objector. He didn't believe in wars or slavery. He refused to pay his taxes to support things he didn't believe in, and went to jail over it."

Bruce considered this. "Is a conscientious objector like a pacifist?"

"Yes. Like a pacifist."

"I don't want to be a pacifist," Bruce said stoutly. "They're . . . unmanly."

"Who told you that?" Carl asked, though he knew there was probably no shortage of sources for such a calumny.

"Everyone says so. Pacifists are cowards and traitors and ought to be run out of town. The boys used to brag about breaking Mr. Pryor's windows. Father asked them to stop, but everyone hated Mr. Pryor just the same."

Carl pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'll tell you what, Bruce," he said, "if there's another war when you grow up, I'll be a pacifist with you."

"Will you?" Bruce brightened, then burrowed down deeper into Carl's shoulder. "That's good. Nobody could ever say that you were a coward."

Carl's face twitched, but he did not contradict him.

After a silence, Bruce asked, "Will you read more?"

Carl stretched an arm around his brother's shoulder and held him close. "Of course. Let's skip around a bit, though. There's a funny part about a loon that liked to play hide-and-seek on the pond."

* * *

*Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 20, "Norman Douglas Speaks Out in Meeting" — The italics in this scene are quotations from that chapter and from chapter 34, "Mr. Hyde Goes to His Own Place and Susan Takes a Honeymoon."

**Henry David Thoreau, _Walden_ (1854). Most of these quotations are from the chapters "Higher Laws" and "Brute Neighbors."

*** _Iliad_ , Book 16, 835.


	9. Fear Not

**Content Warning: anxiety, medical emergency**

* * *

Fear Not

* * *

April 1920

* * *

Nan had given the strictest instructions: under no circumstances was the marketing party allowed to return with a rump roast weighing under four pounds. Five would be better. And potatoes and carrots if they could find any passable, but for goodness' sake not another turnip. They were all sick to death of the horrid things and if Aster House had to endure them during the week, at least they could look forward to serving their guests something better on Sundays.

This early in the year, the grocers' outdoor displays were still filled with root vegetables, but a few early peas and beans showed vivid green amid the browns and ochres. Una filled a paper sack with pods too flat to be called peas, translucent flesh promising the first tang of returning spring. Aster House's own garden was still struggling into existence. Jem and Jerry had tilled the soil weeks ago, laughing over their pitchforks and flinging clods of dirt at one another. Una and Nan had set out the rows between classes and grading, both of them insisting that Faith not be allowed to help, despite her protestations. With Easter over and the infant maple leaves turning from chartreuse to a proper green, tender shoots had begun to show in the torn earth. Soon, they would have runner beans and tender lettuces to brighten their table.

"Peas already?" Carl inquired, appearing at Una's shoulder and pinching a pod from the top of her open sack.

"They mean to be," Una replied, folding the paper over itself protectively. Honestly, she hadn't even paid for them yet.

Carl munched without concern. "Where's Faith?"

"Jem took her over to the park," Una said as she dug through a pile of half-withered carrots, hoping to find some that would meet Nan's aesthetic standards. "She turned awfully green when we walked past the fishmonger."

"I'm amazed she can still walk at all," Carl grinned.

Behind him, a cart horse whinnied, the nervous trill cutting off Carl's smile. He winced, shying away from the flashing teeth and tossing head.

"Did you have any luck at the butcher?" Una asked.

"What? Oh. Yes, we did." Carl waved to Shirley, who had paused at the display of electrical light fixtures in the window of a dry goods store across the street. He carried a brown paper parcel cradled in the crook of his arm — a good size, Una thought.

Shirley skirted a newsboy and stepped past the unsettled cart horse to join them, brandishing his bounty.

"This roast is six pounds if it's an ounce, and don't let Nan try to tell you any different," Shirley said, taking Una's market basket from her arm and adding the meat to its burden.

"How much was it?" Una asked, reaching for her coin purse.

"Don't worry about it."

"But it's all budgeted out," Una protested. "A roast that size must have cost well over a dollar . . ."

"Well then put a dollar toward something you want," Carl said. "Something toothsome and unnecessary."

Una shook her head, counting out coppers for the grocer before she fell in beside Carl. Park Street was crowded with pedestrians, all of them talking and shouting and brushing past one another in their haste to complete their errands. A ragged girl offered early spring blossoms from a tattered basket; a lone automobile honked its frustration at finding that no one would give it right of way.

"Easy, pal," Carl grumbled toward the car, pressing his palms to his ears.

"That's a Cadillac," Shirley said appreciatively, craning his neck for a longer look as they passed. "Don't see many of them around here."

"Do you keep track of all the autos in Kingsport?" Carl groused.

"Only the notable ones."

"And that one is notable?"

"It's a Model 57 Phaeton," Shirley explained, beginning to enumerate the automobile's specifications in what Una could only assume was some sort of alien tongue.

"Alright, alright. It's a flashy machine," Carl conceded. "Don't know why it needs a Strombos horn, though."*

Shirley's brow knit at that, but he had no opportunity to reply. At that very moment, a blur of frantic dog rounded the corner in front of them at top speed. Barking wildly in pursuit of a fleeing squirrel, the mutt bounded directly into their path. Una and Shirley stopped short to avoid collision, but Carl leapt back a pace with a little yelp of his own. The dog was gone in the blinking of an eye, but Carl stood stock still for a long moment.

"Are you alright?" Una asked, resting her slim, white hand on Carl's sleeve.

Carl shuddered back into animation at her touch. "Fine. I'm fine."

They resumed their walk, but chatter ceased. Una attempted to assess Carl out of the corner of her eye, only to meet Shirley doing the same. He gave her a tight smile and said, with every pretense of casualness, "What's left to get, Una?"

"Just eggs, I think," she replied. "If we can find any good ones cheap, that is. The dairy prices are scandalous and half of them blood-rotted."

"You could keep hens at Aster House," Shirley suggested. "We could build you a coop, couldn't we, Carl?"

Carl nodded faintly, but made no other reply.

"That would be kind of you." Una felt that she should take Carl's hand, but she didn't want to fuss over him. They were close to the park now; perhaps Shirley could take him over to rest in the shade while she finished up the shopping.

Una was on the point of suggesting this when it happened.

Nothing very dramatic. Just a fruit-seller shifting a bushel of apples, only to find that the bottom of the basket had come loose. Dozens of apples poured onto the ground, thumping into the dust with a soft, rapid _thwackity thwackity thwackity_ and rolling over Una's feet.

Carl staggered. His face, pale before, had gone opaque and sweaty. His knees buckled and he clutched at Shirley's arm as he crumpled.

He never hit the ground. Before Una could make any sense of what was happening, Shirley had scooped Carl into his arms without apparent effort and was off running toward the green expanse of the park. He dodged bicycles and pedestrians with such nimble indifference that he might have been swooping through open air, rather than a crowded market street.

Una left the basket of groceries where Shirley had dropped it and tried her best to keep up. The crowd that had melted in front of Shirley's urgency closed around her, swallowing her in a wall of elbows and cart wheels and bustling skirts.

When she finally caught up with them in the shade of a thick-trunked oak, Una gasped, though not from the stitch in her side.

Carl lay propped against the tree, clusters of white-and-purple crocuses crushed under him. His body had gone rigid along grotesque lines, mouth twisted and gaping like a landed flounder, hands gnarled into barbed claws. Una barley recognized his face, distorted and sagging, with the sheen of a yellow-waxed Edam. He seemed to be fighting to keep his eye open as it rolled and flicked and quivered. Carl's eyepatch had slipped into his hair, and the sight of his uncovered face jolted Una. She had never seen it before and was ashamed of the lurch of revulsion she felt at the glimpse of milky ruin under the lidless maze of scar.

Shirley knelt over Carl, holding him gently around the shoulders and murmuring soft things: "You're alright, Kit. You're safe. We're in the park in Kingsport, under an oak tree. I'm here. You're safe. Just close your eye. It's alright. You don't have to do or say anything. You're safe."

Una stepped to his side. Without turning, Shirley addressed her in an implausibly neutral tone. "Find Jem." Then it was back to the soothing stream of patter, bathing Carl in gentle waves of reassurance.

Una backed away a few steps, eyes still riveted to the cered round of Carl's face, then turned and fled.

She tore through the park from one known haunt to another. They could not have gone far, no matter how much Faith might protest that she was perfectly well, thank you, and would everyone please just stop fussing?

But Jem and Faith were not at the gazebo and they were not in the shaded spruce grove, nor walking along the promenade. Una was about to double back when she spotted the glint of Jem's hair peeking over a knoll overlooking the harbor. She nearly sobbed in relief.

Back through the park then, with Jem loping along beside her, Faith calling a promise that she would catch up in her own time.

When they reached the oak, Jem knelt beside Shirley as Una stood back, struggling to catch her breath. She noted that Shirley had pulled the eyepatch back over Carl's scars, not, she suspected, because he was unused to the sight, but because other people were on the way, and he had a care to cover what nakedness he could.

"Has this happened before?" Jem asked.

"Not this bad," Shirley replied, voice low and studiously calm.

"But he's had attacks?"

"Yes. But not . . . his hands . . ."

"It's alright. Tetany. It looks bad, but it's only because he's hyperventilating." Jem pressed his fingers to Carl's wrist, taking his pulse as he surveyed his symptoms. "Carl? I know you can hear me, Carl. It's Jem. You're having an acute anxiety attack. But you are going to be fine. I know it feels like you can't breathe, but there is nothing wrong with your lungs. It will pass in a few minutes. All you have to do is breathe nice and slow. Breathe with me, Carl. In . . . and out. In . . . and out."

Shirley bent close and folded one of the taloned hands between his own. "In. And out. In. And out. You're safe, Carl."

Faith waddled up behind Una, panting. "Is he . . . alright?" she hissed.

"I don't know," Una squeaked. "Jem says he is, but he might only be trying to calm him."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. We were just walking through the market. And there was a dog and apples and Carl just fell into a fit . . ."

"That's right," Jem was saying, his voice low and smooth. "Much better. Your heart rate is slowing, Carl. That's very good. Just keep on breathing, nice and slow. Una?"

Una jumped at this summons, springing forward to attend Jem however she could.

"Una, run back to Aster House, will you? Have the girls make up a bed. Warm some blankets."

She nodded and had already turned to go when Carl spoke.

"Wait . . ."

A piteous plea, though Una was not sure if it was meant for her. She sought Carl's face and saw that he _did_ seem to look a little better. His mouth no longer sagged, and the strange waxenness of his skin was beginning to fade back into translucence. With obvious effort, Carl opened his eye and fixed it unmistakably on Shirley.

"Home."

Shirley bent close to catch his words, hand never leaving hand. "Aster House is closer. You can rest there."

Una was relieved to see Carl shake his head, if only because it meant that he could.

"Sorry," he whimpered. "Sorry. Don't want . . . to bother . . . everyone."

"It's no bother, Carl," Jem said with the same kind efficiency that Una remembered hearing in Dr. Blythe's voice the day the Good Conduct Club had starved her into fainting.

"Can we just . . . go home?" This to Shirley, in tones of such naked longing that Una started. An emergency would cover a multitude of sins, but it wouldn't make Jem and Faith unhear anything Carl might say in his distress . . .

"Shhhh," Shirley soothed. He looked to Jem for permission.

Jem frowned. "He seems to be alright. Able to talk. Even his hands are relaxing. I suppose he can go home if he wants to. But I'll come with you."

"No," Shirley said, a bit too quickly. "I mean, there's no need. I can get him home on my own."

"I need to observe him a bit more," Jem pushed back. "Make sure all his vitals get back to normal."

Now it was Shirley who was tense, back stiff, eyes carefully veiled. Una saw a tiny muscle jump in his cheek and knew she must act at once.

"Shirley," she blurted, "give me your key."

"What?"

"Your key," Una repeated, holding out her hand. "I'll run along to your boarding house and make sure . . . tea is ready. Warm blankets. I'll . . . get Carl's bed ready for him."

Una and Shirley locked eyes, blue and brown, and she saw relief flicker there. He dug in a pocket, pressed the key to her palm.

"Thanks, Una," he said heartily. "It's the third floor . . . end of the hall to your left."

"Will they let you in?" Faith asked skeptically.

Una had never entered the house where Carl and Shirley boarded, but she had heard enough to know that no one was likely to take any notice of who came or went.

"It's an emergency," she said with more resolve than she felt. "If anyone asks, I can explain."

She could, but she hoped fervently that she would not have to. Una walked briskly north from the park, blood thrumming in her ears. She must press on, though her lungs burned and her shins had begun to protest all this hurrying to and fro. Past the grocers and the stationers, past the tailors and the post office, past the brooding hulk of All Saints Cathedral. This last seemed to glower reproachfully, all dark stone and hunched shoulders, making Una long for St Elizabeth and her roses. St. Elizabeth would understand, surely, but not All Saints would.

To steady herself, Una began hum under her breath.

 _. . . fear not, I am with you, oh be not dismayed, for I am thy God and will still give thee aid . . ._

A good hymn, and one of the few she had heard sung in both the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian Church and the Cathedral.

The verses of "How Firm a Foundation" carried her through the center of Kingsport, north and west, to the margins of the blast zone and the derelict building her brother called home.

It terrified Una. Glassless windows dark and empty, sagging steps collapsing on themselves. As for its unsavory inhabitants . . .

 _Carl lives here._

The thought brought Una up short. He was an unsavory inhabitant. Someone to be feared and avoided. Her dear, gentle brother, with his love for all creation and his ruined nerves. Was anyone who lived here less precious?

 _No._

Una might wrinkle her nose at the sour smell in the hall and shy from the cobwebbed walls of the stairwell, but she would not be dismayed. She climbed with purpose, seeking the room at the end of the hall and whatever might be in it that could make Shirley Blythe afraid.

 _. . . at home or abroad, on the land or the sea, as thy days may demand, so thy succor shall be . . ._

Una unlocked the door, took a breath through her mouth, and stepped into the room. The problem was immediately obvious. Una felt her face flush to see the beds pushed together, but there was no time for squeamishness.

Gingerly, Una pulled on the frame of one bed, but found that it did not budge. On closer inspection, she discovered the belts that held them fast, head and foot, and whisked them away. It was no trouble, really. The frames sighed as they eased apart, and scraped against the floor, but the boards were old and marked and dingy enough that it hardly mattered. It was the work of moments to refold the blankets and tuck in the sheets, Una's deft hands lifting and smoothing.

By the time Shirley carried Carl over the threshold with Jem bringing up the rear, tea was steeping on the table, with another kettleful singing on the little corner stove and a woolen blanket warming before the grate. A stack of fresh towels folded to Mrs. Langevin's exacting specifications waited on the washstand, wanting only the hot water to make a welcoming bath. One of the beds was turned down and Carl's pajamas and dressing gown laid out neatly across the foot.

Shirley's eyes fluttered shut in relief, and Una accepted his silent nod of thanks. He laid Carl on the bed and began to wrangle his shoes while Jem checked his pulse and Una poured tea all around.

"I'm sorry," Carl repeated wretchedly. "I feel like such a sap."

"Don't apologize," Shirley said, so tenderly that Una thought the jig must be up after all.

If Jem noticed anything, he did not betray it. "Good," he said. "Your pulse is much better, Carl. Are you feeling better?"

"I'm feeling stupid."

"Don't." It was Jem this time, and Una felt suddenly that she was intruding by listening in on a conversation that she had no part in and never could. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. We all get anxious sometimes."

"Don't see you collapsing at the market, do I?" Carl muttered.

"Maybe not," Jem said evenly. "But you're not with me in the middle of the night, are you?"

Carl regarded him closely, blue eye keen to suss out whether Jem was merely humoring him. Evidently concluding that he was not, Carl relaxed into the pillows.

"Can you manage some tea?"

Una brought it before Carl could reply, perching on the edge of the bed to help him guide the cup with hands that were still not quite governable.

"He should have a bath," Jem said to Shirley.

"I can do it."

"I'll help you."

"No," Shirley said, resolute. "You should walk Una home."

Jem pursed his lips, obviously seeing the sense in that. Of course, women bathed and dressed sick family members all the time, but the emergency of the situation was passing. Jem seemed to waver for a moment, caught between duty to his patient and concern for Una's modesty.

"And you need to make sure Faith got home from the park alright," Shirley added.

That settled the matter.

"I'll check in tomorrow," Jem said, rising from the bedside.

"No," Carl said. "We'll come for Sunday dinner. Don't worry. We'll be there."

Una set the tea aside and took Carl's hand. "It's alright if you'd rather rest tomorrow. I'll bring you something."

"I'm fine, Una. Please. I feel bad enough already, causing such a fuss."

It was a kindness to let him send her away. Una bent and kissed Carl on the forehead, his skin still chilled and clammy under her lips. A warm wash would do him good.

Taking her leave, Una locked eyes with Shirley, who gave her the barest of nods. Una felt something residual and protective disintegrate. If asked, she would have said that she had already forgiven Shirley for the heartache he had caused at the end of the war, but now it was really true. She knew now that this was not the first time he had talked Carl through an attack; it was not the first time he had seen him without his eyepatch. No promises or vows could have convinced Una to trust Shirley with Carl's heart, but this did. She nodded back, and left her brother in good hands.

* * *

*A Strombos horn was an extremely loud horn attached to a cylinder of compressed air and sounded as a warning during gas attacks in WWI.


	10. Number One

Number One

* * *

May 1920

* * *

"You can _not_ do it on your own," Di snapped, stamping her foot in frustration. "Your first delivery? You'll kill them both!"

"I will not!" Jem protested.

The Aster House sitting room was large enough to accommodate a dozen well-behaved guests, but seemed far too small for two Blythes bent on shouting one another down. Between the red hair and flushed cheeks and stormy expressions, Una thought they resembled a pair of sparring roosters. She squeezed Faith's hand and attempted to blend into the sofa.

"Now hold on, both of you . . ." Dr. Blythe said, stepping in between his children, only to be assailed simultaneously from both flanks.

"He doesn't have any idea what he's doing, Dad!"

"I took obstetrics this term!"

"Oh, well then you're the expert, aren't you?"

"I don't need any help!"

"You certainly do! I'm not going to let you endanger my best friend just because your ego . . ."

"She's my _wife_!"

"Dad's delivered thousands of babies. I've delivered dozens. You've never done a delivery on your own, not once!"

"I've assisted! Dad, tell her . . ."

Una looked up at the quiet clink of china close at hand. Sylvia was bending toward the sofa, holding out a tray laden with almond sponge and teacups.

"What do you say, Faith?" she whispered, dark eyes atwinkle. "I'll hold the door and you make a run for it."

"I'm ready to have this baby alone in a potato field," Faith grinned, taking a slice of cake. "We might even make it back before they notice I'm gone."

"Una and I will cover for you," Sylvia promised stoutly, offering Una a cup and a wink.

". . . _hardly means you're qualified_ . . ."

" . . . _do you honestly think_ . . ."

Faith nudged Una with her elbow. "You'll stay with me, won't you?"

"D-d-during the birth?" Una stammered.

"Of course during the birth," Faith smiled conspiratorially. "I'll need someone to remember I'm there."

Una nodded slowly. "If you want me. But wouldn't you rather have Di? She'll know what to do so much better than I will."

"No, silly!" Faith said with a light poke in the ribs. "I want you."

Una blushed into her tea, trying to look anywhere but at the raving Blythes. How could Faith take this all so calmly? The discord was making Una's flesh creep and the saucer rattle in her hand.

"Enough! Both of you!" Dr. Blythe deployed his sternest voice, the one generally used to reprimand naughty dogs who stole from the pantry and burly fishermen who refused to rest long enough to let broken bones set.

Di and Jem quieted, both puffing, identical expressions of stubborn pique on their florid faces.

"Here is what we are going to do," Dr. Blythe explained. "Jem will attend the delivery on his own . . ."

"But _Dad_ . . ."

Dr. Blythe held up a hand to quell Di's complaint, ". . . and Di and I will sit right outside, ready to assist at a moment's notice."

Faith clutched Una's free hand and struggled to her feet. "And Una will be in the room with me as well," she announced, causing every Blythe head in the room to whip in her direction. "Yes, hello! I've been here the whole time! You all can work out the medical side of things among yourselves, but I'll have Una."

Three pairs of quizzical eyes fixed on Una, who was just then regretting her decision not to join a foreign mission.

"But Faith," Jem said, crossing the room and taking her by the hand. "I can do this on my own. I promise."

"You most certainly can't," Faith snorted. "For one, you aren't the one giving birth. And while I have every confidence in your abilities as a doctor, I'll have Una or I'll have no one at all."

"I'll guard the door for you," Sylvia smirked behind her teacup.

"But . . ."

Faith raised a delicate eyebrow and the matter was settled.

* * *

On Sunday, Una's eyes were closed, head bowed in prayer as the All Saints congregation shuffled to and from communion, when she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. Jerry had slipped into the pew beside her, dark eyes flashing.

"It's time."

* * *

"I told you to let her stay til the end of the service," Faith scolded when Jerry delivered Una to the apartment on the top floor of a converted mansion near the medical school. "It will be ages and ages yet."

"You never can tell," grinned Jem, the red curls at his temples already slightly damp with sweat, though he hadn't done anything more than roll up his sleeves.

"Oh, I shouldn't have told any of you," Faith snapped. "I'll know better next time."

Dr. Blythe came out of the kitchen, looking nearly as excited as Jem and doing no better at hiding it. "Di's putting the water on. Have you prepped the bed, Jem? Oh, hello, Una. Jerry."

"Not yet," Jem said. "But I have all the linens and the rubber sheet . . ."

"Well, let's get to it," Dr. Blythe said, clapping Jem on the back and steering him toward the bedroom.

"I'll be going, too," said Jerry. "Any updates for the folks at Aster House?"

Faith spread her hands and looked down at her distended belly. "Does it look like there are any updates?"

"Sorry," Jerry grinned. "But they will insist on asking me what they can do to help."

Una was quite sure that Faith was on the point of telling all and sundry to take a long walk off a short pier, so she was surprised when her sister paused in thought. "What do you say, Una," she mused. "Do you fancy some lemon tarts?"

"Lemon tarts?"

"Better yet, monkey-faces. Oooh, or plum puffs! Yes, tell them we require some of Aunt Marilla's plum puffs. I've heard enough about them. Does that sound good to you, Una?"

"I'm not hungry . . ."

"Well of course not, silly. But Nan and Mrs. Blythe will go spare just waiting for news all day. This will give them some work to do!"

"But it's Sunday . . ."

"All the more reason for them to keep busy! They can't shop and they won't clean, not on a Sunday, though I suppose Nan could stretch to lace-making. But baking for the whims of a woman in labor? I'm sure there's a Sabbath exemption for that."

"So . . . plum puffs?" Jerry asked.

"Better make it all three," Faith said solemnly.

When Jerry had gone, Faith leaned back into the cushions of the sofa and sighed.

Una sat beside her, perched gingerly on the edge."Are you alright, Faith? I do want to help . . ."

"Oh, just entertain me," Faith said airily. "It's barely started. I really shouldn't have said anything until I was further along. Now they won't even let me go downstairs in case I can't get back up again."

"Well . . ." Una cast an eye over the little apartment. It was scrupulously clean thanks to a visitation from Nan, Sylvia, and Mrs. Blythe during the week of final exams, which had left every floorboard scrubbed, every curtain laundered, and the pantry set into the sort of order it had never known before. The apartment was small, but escaped feeling cramped due to the abundance of natural light from its many windows. A single main room under eaves of unpredictable height served as both sitting room and dining area, depending on what furniture one focused on. On the side facing the street, a turret of five windows surrounded a little nook that Jem kept as his office, the desk piled high with his textbooks and papers. This was the only untidy surface in the place, which was notably uncluttered thanks to Faith's economical approach to housekeeping.

"The fewer things I have, the fewer things I have to clean," she had explained at a recent Sunday dinner. Carl had laughed and told her of Thoreau and his disdain for "the devil's doorknobs," cementing that choice phrase in the family lexicon for all time.

Despite her best efforts to avoid them, Faith was in for a major incursion of household goods. Susan, Rosemary, and Miss Cornelia had been sewing industriously all spring, their combined efforts packed neatly into a trunk in the corner of the sitting room along with similar tributes from Rilla, Persis, and Mrs. Ford. Una herself had contributed a stack of diapers, all as beautifully hemmed as if they were ornamental cushions, along with an exquisite bonnet and sweater set knit from cashmere yarn so fine the garments ran like quicksilver. There were new towels, new sheets, a bewildering assortment of specialized dishware, pins, creams, and various other impedimenta obscure in origin and implementation. All of this was packed in boxes, anticipating the long-awaited moment when it would be called up to serve the new arrival.

". . . I could open the windows?" Una ventured, not being able to ascertain anything else that needed doing.

"Yes, let's," Faith agreed, beginning to hoist herself out of the sofa. "It can get awfully stuffy up . . ."

Suddenly, she darted out a hand and gripped Una's arm.

"Faith?"

"Just . . . wait . . ." Faith grimaced, her body tense and still. "Wait . . . alright. Alright, it passed."

Una blanched, the lingering pain in her forearm nothing to the clenching of her own gut.

"You should stay sitting," she squeaked.

"No, I'm fine," Faith said with a breezy tone Una could not fathom. "They've been coming and going all morning. Let's open those windows."

The windows were tricky, with thick layers of paint and uneven sashes making them paradoxically both difficult to open and in need of propping to stay that way. They had only managed to wrestle three into compliance before Faith tensed again, sucking in a long breath between gritted teeth.

"Another contraction?" Di asked, drying her hands on a towel as she emerged from the kitchen. "Getting closer together, aren't they."

Faith nodded, but did not reply.

"That's good!" Di beamed.

"What's good?" Jem asked, materializing at the bedroom door.

"Contractions," Di said briskly, running her towel over a perfectly clean tabletop.

Jem groaned, looking at his watch. "Faith, you're supposed to tell me! How will I know whether they're getting closer together?"

"They are," Faith said dryly.

"No sign of your water breaking, though?" Jem asked, tilting his head as he surveyed his wife, the floor, the sofa . . .

Faith drew in a breath as deep as her constricted lungs would allow. "Here is what you are going to do," she said in a clipped tone that went Dr. Blythe's one better. "Jem, go find a deck of cards. Di, there's a cribbage board on the bookshelf; set it up here. We'll play until I can't anymore, and anyone who says anything obstetrics-adjacent before I say it myself goes directly to Aster House for the duration. Is that understood?"

Thus, Una Meredith found herself holding a hand of cards for the first time in her life, and on a Sunday no less. Dr. Blythe patiently explained the suits and different ways of scoring points, adopting Una as his teammate in an otherwise cutthroat match. Faith took breaks at irregular intervals to grimace through one contraction and another, but said not a single word about them, leaving the entire table breathless.

They played to 61 and then to 121 and then through again. Finally, sometime in the mid-afternoon, when Faith stretched across the table to move her peg, she gave a little _oh!_ and pressed her hand to her belly.

"That will be the water, I expect," she said, and indeed it was.

Una felt a lurch of indistinguishable fear and excitement. Di and Dr. Blythe both set down their cards, but said nothing. Jem was half-standing, hovering over his seat like a sprinter poised for the starting gun.

"Oh, alright," Faith said, throwing up her hands. "It's time."

* * *

"I don't want to lie down!"

"I swear to God, Faith, if you were this unreasonable on the obstetrical ward, they'd have sedated you by now."

"Well thank goodness I'm not on the ob . . ." Faith's words were cut off by another pain.

"Breathe through it, love," Jem said, his voice gone instantly gentle as Faith grasped both his hands. "Breathe. Breathe."

Una stood behind her sister, rubbing her back with firm strokes, praying silently and unceasingly. She did not stop the massage, even when she felt the muscles under her fingers go lax, Faith's shoulder's slumping.

"It feels . . . good . . . to stand," Faith panted. "If I lie down . . . I won't get up."

"You have to lie down at some point," Jem pleaded, wincing as he flexed his left hand.

"Why? Won't a bit of gravity help?"

Una flicked a glance at Jem, who was losing both the animation of frustration and the energy of joy.

"You've been up all night," he said, voice cracking. "You'll need energy when it's time to push."

The muscles under Una's fingers went flat and hard even before Faith moaned. Her voice tracked the contraction, growing in intensity until she growled a guttural snarl at the peak, then subsiding.

"I just want to check you," Jem said softly. "Can you sit for just one minute? You can get up again if you like, I promise."

Leaning on Una for support, Faith lowered herself onto a wooden chair, sitting forward on the seat so Jem could assess her progress. He knelt, felt, cleaned his hands on the towel Una handed him.

"Not long now, I don't think."

"This is a good chair," Faith said vaguely.

Jem grinned and kissed her on the cheek. "See? Let yourself rest between contractions."

"Here comes another . . ."

When it had subsided, Una offered Faith a sip of cold tea, which she accepted gratefully.

"I just feel all . . . sticky." Faith complained, tugging at her night dress. "Trapped. Itchy."

"Would it be alright if we took off your dress?" Una asked "Combed your hair?"

Faith nodded her assent. In the gaps between the next several contractions, Una and Jem relieved Faith of her sweat-damp garments, combed her hair and braided it away from her neck, and sponged down her back with cool water. She sat on the edge of the chair, arching her back to meet each pain, the glowing expanse of her skin slick and golden in the lamplight as if she had swallowed the sun. Jem coaxed and soothed, providing ballast against the waves that seized her and comfort when they subsided. Una knelt at Faith's feet, bathing them in a basin and squeezing her toes gently.

"That's heavenly," Faith moaned, even as another contraction took her.

Jem checked her again and stood up radiant. "I think it's time to meet our little visitor," he grinned.

* * *

"You're doing great, Faith," Jem said, sweat pouring from his forehead in rivulets as he knelt on the bed. Una would have offered him a towel, but she was so entwined with Faith, hand to hand and head to head, that she could hardly spare a thought for her brother-in-law, let alone a gesture. He seemed to be getting on alright, though, his energy renewed by the urgency of the moment. "I can see the top of the head. Next contraction, you're going to give it everything you've got, ok? The biggest push in the world. Imagine you're a giantess or an elephant or a speeding train or . . ."

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Faith spat, attempting to kick Jem, who only dodged and grinned.

"That's the spirit, love. Put all that into the next push, alright?"

Faith merely grunted, but when the next contraction came, she snorted like a dragon and bore down with such ferocity that Una felt her own hand buckle. Faith pushed long and longer, her whole body hard as iron, until all the tension dissolved in a single whoosh as the baby slid free into Jem's waiting hands.

Faith gasped; Una looked, half fearful, but Jem was grinning. The baby had thrown his arms wide and rigid, like a crab fending off a seagull, and after one breathless moment of surprise, opened his mouth and wailed. Una gaped at the child, who seemed both beautiful and grotesque, wet and purple and squashy-faced and absolutely enormous. He squalled lustily in his father's hands, twisting and thrashing in protest of his recent ordeal.

"A boy," Jem choked. "It's a boy, Faith."

Jem placed the slick newborn on Faith's chest, letting her hold him as all four of them attempted to breathe. Faith clutched her son with one hand and reached for Jem with the other.

"You did it," she gasped.

He laughed, eyes glistening as he bent to kiss her. "Hardly. You did it, love."

"He's alright?" Faith asked, peering down at the baby.

"He certainly is. Perfect. He must weigh ten pounds."

Faith beamed, _eyes aglow with the holy passion of motherhood_ , her joy and Jem's so radiant that Una felt herself an intruder. She would have slipped out the door then and there, but Jem spoke to her unexpectedly, making her jump.

"Una, will you bring a towel? And stay right here with Faith while I take care of the afterbirth."

Una did as she was bid, approaching cautiously and draping the towel over the baby's back with exquisite gentleness as Jem clamped and cut the umbilical cord.

"Say hello to your Auntie Una," Faith said, turning the child so that Una could see his face.

Una bent low over them both and offered her gory nephew a delicate kiss. "He's beautiful, Faith."

"He is, isn't he?"

"Does he had a name?" Una smiled. "Jem Jr.?"

Faith snorted derisively. "As if that one needs to be more pleased with himself."

Jem grinned up from the end of the bed at this invocation. "Quite impossible at the moment," he assured her. "Alright, Faith, I'm going to need you to push one last time. Maybe let Una take little not-Jem for a minute?"

"Here now, laddie," Una crooned, scooping the baby into a warm towel. "Let's get you cleaned up for Mummy."

It was the work of moments to sponge blood and vernix from the wee face, cover the impossibly soft cheeks with kisses, and wrap the sturdy little body in a blanket Una had made for the occasion. The baby snuffled, but seemed to be settling into the new world of air and light, no longer howling in protest. Una noted that he had beautiful little ears that lay flat against his head, and was pleased that she would have something to tell Susan. Una did not swaddle him, knowing that Jem would want to check him over in more detail, but pulled the blanket snug around him for warmth.

Turning back to the bed, Una placed the sighing bundle in her sister's waiting arms and pressed a farewell kiss to the damp curls escaping over her forehead. Faith did not look away from her son's face, but smiled at Una's kiss. When Jem had finished his ministrations and come to sit beside his wife and child, Una took her leave. _As noiselessly as a little gray mouse_ , she slipped from the room, leaving the new family sobbing together on the bed.

* * *

"Everything alright in there?" Di asked, rising to her feet as Una closed the door softly behind her.

Una only nodded, not quite able to speak, but showing a smile through her own tears.

"Nothing wrong with the little one's lungs, is there?" Dr. Blythe grinned, lacing his hands behind his head. "Boy or girl?"

"Boy," Una whispered.

Perhaps it was strange that becoming a grandfather should shave decades off Dr. Blythe, but joy radiated from him in waves and he looked half a boy himself.

"Should we go in to help?" Di asked. "They've both been up all night. They'll need clean sheets, clean clothes . . ."

"In a few minutes," Dr. Blythe nodded, his voice husky even through his smile. "We'll just give them a few minutes together."

"Perhaps tea?" Una said, stepping toward the kitchen.

"Goodness, Una, you sit!" Di said, bounding into the kitchen herself.

Dr. Blythe offered Una a chair, but did not require her to speak, for which she was shamelessly grateful. They sat in silence as a _windy golden sunrise_ peeked in through the curtains. Perhaps not as glorious as triumphant dawn emerging from the depths of the gulf, but quite nice enough to be getting on with.

Di returned with tea and warm scones slathered with more butter and jam than Una ever would have allowed herself. She had just taken her first heavenly bite when the bedroom door clicked open. Three heads turned as one to behold Jem, bearing a swaddled bundle in the crook of his arm and smiling from the tips of his toes to the whorls of his own excellent ears.

"A young gentleman to see you," he said, settling the baby into Dr. Blythe's arms. "May I present Number One: Samuel Meredith Blythe."

Dr. Blythe nodded, holding his son's eye for a long, proud moment before greeting his grandson. "Hello, small Samuel."

"Samuel?" Di asked, copper brows meeting in a V of consternation. "That's not a family name, is it?"

"No," Jem cleared his throat. "He was a very dear friend."

"In France?"

"In Germany."

Dr. Blythe reached for Jem's scar-mapped hand and clasped it convulsively in his own, skirting the razor-edge that separated Adoration and Pietà. They worshipped together, exclaiming over Sam's size, noting that he'd be another in the rosy-golden line of Merediths, though Dr. Blythe seemed reluctant to abandon all hope that he might be red-headed just yet. Together, they enumerated each of his tiny toes and wee, precious fingers.

Una abandoned her scone, leaving fathers and sons to their hard-won joy. She followed Di to the bedroom, where a quarter hour of brisk tucking, sponging, and plaiting saw Faith returned to drowsy comfort.

"Sleep, dearest," Una crooned, stroking her sister's hair.

"You'll bring Sam?" Faith yawned. "When he's hungry?"

"Of course," Una promised, privately thinking she stood little chance in vying for that particular honor.

She stayed by the bed as Faith dozed, tracing the shining highlights of her hair. In a little while, Una would go with Di to Aster House to summon Mrs. Blythe, would share her bursting joy with Carl and Jerry, would accept congratulations from Shirley and Sylvia and Nan and Emile and Marie, would smile at Claude as he gamboled about singing _ba-by ba-by ba-by_ , would ensure that someone went off to send a telegram to the manse. But for now, she would sit with Faith, thanking God that she was delivered safe, wondering how it was possible for her beautiful sister to have grown still more beautiful.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **If you are wondering about Jem's friend Sam, I have written a short story about the two of them: "Brigade Brothers," the fourth story in my _One Hour to Madness and Joy_. It is rated M (mostly for violence) and concerns Jem's improbable escape from a POW camp in September 1918.**


	11. Native Shore

**Native Shore**

* * *

August 1920

* * *

Abel Cooper's old barn was set back from the harbor road, sunk in overgrown sweet grass and a blackberry bramble that aspired to guard a fairytale castle when it grew up. The barn was a decrepit, sway-backed thing, so long disused that it no longer even smelled of lanolin. Still, Old Abel could not be persuaded to tear it down. Perhaps he might have been more amenable if the Ladies' Aid had sent anyone other than Mrs. Elder Baxter to beseech him, somehow forgetting that her cousin Sarah had jilted his brother Peter once upon a time and Mrs. Elder Baxter had been heard to laugh over it. So Abel had kept his barn, such as it was, though its unsightly appearance made him uneasy by times. That is until Dr. Blythe's son had come 'round the Cooper place all respectful-like in the summer after the war to ask if Mr. Cooper could be prevailed upon to rent it out for storage. Anything for one of our lads, of course, and the five dollars a month didn't come amiss either.

* * *

One morning in early August, Carl Meredith slashed his way through the cloying bracken of late summer, trying not to imagine how many ticks he was collecting as he went. The day was only half-kindled, but it was already muggy enough that bits of blown grass clung to his neck and his shirt showed several damp patches. You could see the harbor from here, calm and glittering a quarter mile distant over salt marsh and dunes and pebbled shore. It looked wonderfully cool and Carl wondered whether swimming mightn't be a better use of the day.

Certain ominous clankings told Carl that Shirley was already hard at work in Abel Cooper's tumble-down barn, as he had been nearly every day since their return to Glen St. Mary three weeks ago. No fishing this holiday, not when the Curtiss HS-2L needed his attention.

Carl had brought Bruce by the barn to help once or twice, but ultimately decided he wasn't going to spend his whole vacation cleaning carburetors and oiling a sluggish valvetrain. Wasn't the point of coming home to lay in a good stock of sunshine and fresh air to carry him through the term? Carl thought it might even be working. He hadn't had a single attack since coming home to the Glen. Any time he felt his anxiety begin to sizzle, all he had to do was plunge into Rainbow Valley or hike the old paths along the green-shaded brook or seek out the endless, wide-open shore. Then the irritable, crackling tension would dissipate, flowing off into the wide world, leaving his mind clear and calm. He could breathe everywhere here.

Yesterday, Carl had been sitting on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in firefly time. Shirley had found him there and asked him to come out to the barn this morning, and to bring along a sweater and his monocular. The sweater meant that Shirley intended to take him up in the Curtiss, which was to be expected if not particularly relished. But the monocular was a mystery and Carl couldn't help feeling a little flutter of excitement as he fought his way to the barn door.

It took a moment for Carl's eye to adjust to the dim interior. The space was dominated by the vast, thin-ribbed wings of the "flying boat," their upright struts as tall as Carl himself. It suddenly occurred to Carl to wonder how, exactly, Shirley had gotten the plane into the barn in the first place and how he meant to get it out again.

"Hello?"

The clanking stopped and Shirley popped up from behind the rudder, hammer in hand, face smeared with grease.

"You made it!"

"'Course I did. Can I help?"

Shirley shook his head. "I'm pretty much done here. Just checking on the tow."

"Tow?"

"It's a sea plane. No wheels. We have to haul her down to the water."

"Haul it?" Carl eyed the hulking machine skeptically. "How much does it weigh?"

Smirking, Shirley patted the Curtiss as if Carl might have hurt its feelings. "Not so very much. Don't worry, though. I hired Bertie Shakespeare Drew to bring his team over, so all we have to do is guide her out of the barn."

"How?"

Shirley had clearly been waiting for Carl to ask this, given the uncharacteristic glee with which he demonstrated the system of levers and winches that opened and shut the huge doors cut into one side of the barn.

"You built that?"

"Well, it was already half-built. I just enlarged it."

"Very impressive," Carl said as he pulled Shirley into a proper greeting.

Not even Carl could deny that it had been a long three weeks in some respects. Fresh air was certainly abundant in Glen St. Mary, but privacy was not. Even in the dim shelter of the shadowed barn, Carl did not allow himself to become too immersed in an overdue kiss. Bertie Shakespeare could come along at any moment.

"Did you bring your sweater?" Shirley asked, wiping a smear of grease from Carl's cheek.

Carl held out the wooly blue garment clinging limply to his sweat-damp forearm. "You've lost your senses. It's sweltering."

"Not thousands of feet in the air it isn't."

Carl shivered a bit despite the heat. It was one thing to say that he trusted Shirley, which he did, of course. But it was quite another to trust the Curtiss, which had, after all, been built by fallible humans and had no natural business leaving the ground.

"Where are we going?" he asked, hoping his momentary trepidation did not show in his face.

"Where do you want to go? We could go up to the Magdalens or over to Cape Breton, or just up to the north shore of the Island if you'd rather not go too far. Heck, we could go to Miquelon if you like. Take up rum-running."

"We can do that?" Carl asked, surprised. "We wouldn't run out of fuel?"

Shirley slapped the fuselage fondly. "She's got a range of 500 miles. We could fly to Kingsport and back twice without refueling."

"Really?" Kingsport had always seemed a world away, as if the ritual of train and ferry insulated the Island from the outside world. Carl wasn't quite sure he liked the idea that there were only miles in between. "How long would that take?"

"To fly to Kingsport? On a clear day like this?" Shirley squinted up into the sky, considering. "Maybe an hour? Hour and a half at the most."

Carl was stunned. "You're putting me on."

"She's a bit poky," Shirley conceded. "Only goes about 80 miles an hour. Makes me miss the S.E.5as. Now _those_ had some pep to them."

"But it takes us a whole day on the train and the ferry."

"Well, we could fly if you didn't have so much luggage."

Carl acknowledged the jibe with a poke to the ribs, but the wheels of his brain were turning.

"You know, you could charge people for that," he said. "Fly to Kingsport in an hour. Some of the summer people might hire you. Like a hackney carriage."

Shirley shrugged. "They might. But I'm not hurting for money. And I can think of better places to go."

"Like where?"

"Like wherever you want to go."

Carl smiled and flouted the imminent arrival of Bertie Shakespeare with bold abandon.

"Let's go to the Magdalens," he said a few minutes later. "It's nesting season up at the Bird Rocks."

Shirley produced a chart and they plotted a course together, north over the Gulf of St. Lawrence, past the Magdalens proper and on to the isolated sea cliffs where gannets and kittiwakes nested in their thousands. And then perhaps back to the Magdalens? Pointe de l'Est? Île Brion?

Their preparations were interrupted by a snorting and stamping outside the barn. Shirley stepped out into the sunshine to greet Bertie Shakespeare, while Carl admired the pair of gorgeous percherons, their black coats brushed and gleaming, their long manes plaited away from their muscular necks.

A half-hour's hitching and wrangling saw the Curtiss ready for its short journey to the harbor. Shirley tossed a pair of long leather dusters into the cockpit, along with helmets, goggles, and assorted boxes and bags of who knew what. Then they were off, with Bertie guiding his team and Shirley hovering over his machine, alert to any shifting or bumping.

The flying boat glided down the harbour road, white wings stretching wide over the marsh grasses on either side. As it neared the dunes, a crowd of barefoot children from the nearby village at Harbour Head ran to see it pass, shouting to their comrades to come see.

"Mr. Meredith!" shouted a tow-headed boy, waving.

Carl returned the boy's grin. "How are you, Robbie? Getting along in your arithmetic?"

"Naw. But Pop says I have to stay in school another two years before I can go out with the boats."

Other former students crowded around Carl, telling him their news and marveling over the airplane. Carl did his best to answer the barrage of questions:

"Are you going to fly in it, Mr. Meredith?"

"What are the horses' names?"

"Why are you taking it to the shore?"

"I'd be scared to go in an airplane!"

"I wouldn't! It would be grand!"

By the time the percherons had delivered the Curtiss to the water's edge, a bedraggled parade streamed along behind, with children and dogs and not a few of the older fishermen come to see the takeoff.

Carl bid his pupils goodbye and went to garb up for the ascent.

"Quite the fan club you have there," Shirley observed as he fastened his flight jacket.

"Well, I doubt their other teachers have let them bring quite so many snakes and toads to school."

"You're a legend," Shirley said dryly. "Ready?"

Carl blinked up through his goggles, which Shirley seemed to find amusing. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Shirley hopped up to hand-start the propeller, which belched black smoke and rattled a bit until it found its rhythm. Carl compressed his lips, but would not disappoint any of his audiences. With a fond farewell to solid ground, he clambered into his seat, waving to the cheering children arrayed on either side. Then Shirley was in his own seat beside Carl, strapping in, easing the plane over the surface of the water faster and faster. As they lifted free, Carl instinctively clamped his hand on Shirley's knee, earning himself a resigned shake of the head.

They soared high and higher until there was nothing but blue below them and blue above them, with more blue fore and aft. Carl gradually loosened his grip and risked a peek over the side. Despite Shirley's earlier quip, they did not seem to be flying very high. The HS-2L was a reconnaissance plane, after all, and built for staying low enough to see something.

Carl did indeed see something: dark shapes lancing through the water. With a lurch in his gut, he thought of U-boats and torpedoes . . . but then one of the shadows broke the water in a glory of surf and spray.

"Whales!" Carl shouted, gesticulating to Shirley. "Whales!"

It was useless trying to say much over the constant whirr of the propellor, but Shirley nodded and mimed holding something up to his eye. It took Carl a moment to cotton on, but then he remembered the monocular in his pocket, Shirley's Christmas gift to him. He scrabbled under his duster as Shirley pulled the plane about, trimming altitude until they were less than a thousand feet up.

Pushing back his goggles, Carl held the monocular up to his eye and fixed it on the pod of whales below. There were at least eight of them, and as Carl watched, they breached and rolled, playing or feeding he could not tell. He had seen whales before, but never like this, never so many, nor making such elaborate displays. Why, he could even see the calves, following alongside their mothers under the surface while the adults leapt over the waves like enormous ballet dancers. They were magnificent.

When they left the whales behind, Carl looked eagerly for more, his smile so constant that the whipping wind dried his teeth and gums, and he had to make a conscious effort to close his mouth. Next time, he thought, he would have to bring a scarf.

They flew for more than an hour, over the Gulf, past the sand bars of the Magdalens and toward the Bird Rocks twenty-five miles further on. A year ago, in the spring of 1919, the province of Québec had officially designated these Rochers aux Oiseaux as wildlife sanctuaries, along with Île Bonaventure and Rocher Percé closer to the mainland. Here, the seabirds of the Gulf of St. Lawrence — petrels and razorbills, murres and guillemots, gannets and kittiwakes — nested and raised their young. Someday there would be more sanctuaries like this, but these were the first in the Canadian Atlantic, the first government efforts to preserve habitat and migratory paths for animals, turning centuries of colonial extraction toward stewardship, one very small step at time.

When at last he spotted the largest of the Bird Rocks thrusting up through the waves, Carl pulled at Shirley's sleeve.

"Not too low!" he shouted, annunciating as clearly as he could. "Not too low!"

After all, he would hate to disturb the birds unnecessarily. Shirley nodded, and did not get too close. Even so, the island was breathtaking. Red sandstone cliffs rose in sheer verticals from the sea, a hundred feet tall and wreathed in clouds of white-winged birds coming and going, bringing food for their young. The island was tiny, only a few hundred feet across, with a flat top boasting a lighthouse and a keeper's cottage.

As they circled, a tiny figure emerged from the cottage and waved. Carl returned the salute, thinking how odd it must be to live on a rock in the middle of the ocean with tens of thousands of squawking birds. He had heard old sailors speak of the Bird Rock lighthouse, how it had saved many a sailor from a watery grave and just as surely doomed many a keeper. Some, they said, had been maimed or killed firing the fog cannon, others had blown off the sides of the island in high winds, and still others had gone mad from loneliness. Accessible only in summer, the Rock was ice-bound in winter. In the year of Carl's birth, the three men of Bird Rock had gone out on the ice to hunt for seals, only to be caught in a storm. Two died; the third walked sixty miles over the frozen sea to Cape Breton, surviving by drinking the warm blood of seals he clubbed along the way, but dying days after he had reached Nova Scotia.*

Carl shivered. Peace was one thing, isolation quite another.

Shirley circled the rock several times, staying above the wheeling gannets. Carl wished they could get closer to really see the nests, but they'd need a boat for that. He made a mental note that if he ever did dock at the tiny pier wedged into a cleft in the cliff, he'd be sure to bring a handsome offering for the lighthouse keeper.

* * *

Carl reached down deep to the sandy bottom of the inlet, submerged to his shoulder. Tracing the stalks with his fingers, he found the root of the plant and dug underneath it, snapping off the rhizome that connected this shoot to the others around it. Eelgrass wasn't a deep-rooted plant and Carl didn't want to pull up the whole bed just to get a small sample.

He rinsed the long, flat leaves in the waves and held them out to examine them in the light. They seemed sound and healthy, their bright, acid green unmarred by discoloration or inclusion. Carl flicked away a row of tiny periwinkles grazing along a leaf blade; they may have come to Canada a century ago, but they were still invaders, riding the hulls of empire to wreak their havoc on the Gulf. What had this place been like before the periwinkles and the shore crabs and the greedy cod fishery? People seemed to think that you could just go on taking forever, not understanding that every little snail changed the ecosystem. Only the Mi'kmaq seemed to care about the Gulf's own rights, and no one in government was listening to them at all, except maybe Charles Gordon Hewitt, God rest his soul.** Well, the eelgrass was healthy, at least, and that would have to be enough for now.

Carl waded ashore, passing the beached plane and claiming his clothes from a driftwood log. He dressed quickly and carelessly, still pondering the eelgrass in his hand as he walked up the beach to the place where Shirley had spread a picnic blanket among the dunes.

"What have you got there?" Shirley asked, nodding toward the green spray.

"What? Oh, this? Eelgrass."

Shirley cocked his head. "Is it edible?"

"Only if you're a goose," Carl smiled. Then, wandering off again down his own path, "I wonder if Brant geese come this far east. They must — in the fall — coming down from the arctic . . ."

"Well, if it isn't edible, it can wait." Shirley had already unpacked a generous picnic hamper that had yielded a pile of sandwiches, a bowl of cherries, a spice-scented cake crowned with brown sugar crumble.

"Did you bake?" Carl teased as he sank onto the blanket.

"Hardly. Susan will barely let me cut my own food, let alone let me near the oven."

"Well, I suppose it looks alright anyway."

Carl dusted his hands on his trousers and reached for a sandwich from the top of the pile. His brow furrowed as he inspected it. "You brought . . . cheese sandwiches?"

"Sure," Shirley replied, biting into one of his own. "Is cheese still alright?"

"Yes. It's fine. But . . ." Carl frowned, "you don't have to give up meat just because I do."

"I'm not planning on it, Shirley shrugged. "But I like bread and cheese just fine."

There was a hint of smile folded into the simple statement and Carl knew he was not the only one remembering other loaves, spread thick with soft French cheese and eaten together behind a thrice-locked door.

"Sorry I couldn't get you a bottle of wine," Shirley said, speaking the shared thought. "Prohibition and all. I looked for pears, too, but I couldn't find any, not even in Lowbridge. Maybe they aren't in season or maybe no one grows them here."

"You went all the way to Lowbridge looking for pears?"

"Well Carter Flagg didn't have any. It's only six miles."

He said it so casually, as if it were obvious that anyone would walk hours searching for out-of-season fruit for the sake of a memory.

Carl dropped his sandwich onto the blanket and shimmied over on his knees, twining his arms around Shirley's neck and kissing him soundly. Broad hands slid up Carl's back, holding him fast, and convincing him that perhaps lunch could wait after all.

"They were Anjou pears," Carl said between kisses. "They're ripe late in the fall."

"Mmm hmm."

Carl sat back on his heels. "I suppose they could grow here," he said thoughtfully. "You'd have to tend them carefully, but they might grow."

Shirley opened his eyes. "What?"

"Pears."

"Pears?"

Carl grinned. "Lost the plot, have you?"

"I've missed you."

"You've seen me nearly every day," Carl said, knowing that's not what he had meant.

"I'm not sure staring at you over the pews counts."

"Should I tell Susan you've been flirting in church?"

Shirley grimaced. "Why do you think she wants me to go? I've heard all there is to hear about Addie Taylor and Julia Cooper and Mary Margaret Macalister . . ."

"Mary Margaret Macalister?" Carl laughed, conjuring a vision of spotless white pinafores and neatly buttoned boots. "Isn't she the one who used to wear those enormous pink bows to school?"

"Maybe. I don't think I was in the habit of noticing."

"Oh, come on. All those nice girls and you never noticed any of them?"

"No."

"And why is that, I wonder?"

It wasn't always easy to coax Shirley into a real smile, one that was visible and unguarded, rather than layered or fleeting. Even here, away from everything and everyone, he was not naturally demonstrative. But Carl was well practiced in the art of beguiling the Blythe grin out of him.

"Are you fishing for compliments now?" Shirley asked, giving in.

Carl congratulated himself, though he mused that it was an odd sort of game that either had two winners or none.

"You could still have noticed girls," he said, allowing himself to be pulled over into the sand.

"I didn't."

* * *

There was no such thing as time out there in the sun-swept, wind-scoured Gulf, no bells or clocktowers or pocket watches to tick away the minutes or ration the hours. The afternoon stretched to the infinite horizon and further, like Joshua's endless day.***

They sat among the dunes and walked the shore, chatting, holding hands, picking up interesting shells and bits of colorful glass washed up from wrecks and worn smooth by the waves. Carl heard all about the doings of the Ingleside folk and Susan's delight that Jem and Faith had decided to take up permanent residence there next May, little Sam in tow. Shirley heard about the plans brewing among the Merediths, how Una would stay another year in Kingsport to help Faith, how Jerry was bursting with enthusiasm for his law course, how much Rosemary and Mr. Meredith had enjoyed their visit to meet their grandson.

"I had a letter from Nellie as well," Carl said. "She asked me to pass along her regards."

"And how is Miss Nellie?"

"Very well. She stayed in Kingsport to work with a Professor of Botany over the summer. Apparently fruit trees make excellent subjects for watercolors."

"Any other news?"

Carl paused, thinking. "Did I mention that Anthony Marckworth's sister Hazel is getting married?"

"Isn't she the one that was friends with the girls during the war?"

"Yes. Apparently she met an officer in the hospital when she was volunteering during the flu epidemic."

Shirley snorted. "It must be true love, if she fell for him while he was sick with the flu."

"I don't know the particulars of it," Carl said. "I had a letter from Harry, too. He says that it's all over with that hotel manager he was seeing."

"Wife found out at last, did she?"

"It would appear so."

"Well, you did try to warn him."

They walked in silence for a while, the waves pounding a soothing drone punctuated by the shrieks of gulls overhead.

Carl licked his lips. "Have you had any letters?" he asked casually.

Shirley looked surprised. "Me? Who would write to me?"

Carl did not answer that, simultaneously relieved and exasperated. Shirley couldn't really be so dense, could he?

"Uh . . . my parents had a letter from Rilla?" Shirley offered. "Ken wants her to have the baby in a hospital."

"Your dad doesn't mind?"

"I don't think so. He might even be relieved. Besides, he has an obstetrician friend out there — Dr. Wilson, the one who worked with Di during the war. They'll just go and visit like normal grandparents."

"That will be nice for them, to see all the Fords."

"Yes, in sinful, squalid Toronto," Shirley smirked. "You should hear Susan go on about it. She nearly fainted when Dad said they were considering going for Christmas."

"If they do, you know you're always welcome for Christmas at the manse."

"If they do, Susan will use the empty house to hold a cotillion for me."

Carl laughed. "You'd make a smashing debutante."

"Oh, I'd smash something alright."

Carl grinned, imagining one of Susan's famous cakes sailing through the air to splatter over the satin pumps of all the Glen's most eligible maidens. He threaded an arm through Shirley's, savoring the freedom to walk like this, together on a vast and lonely shore.

They walked on and on until the Curtiss seemed like something on a postage stamp, rather than a powerful machine. Time or no, the sun was definitely slipping lower on the horizon, the light beginning to change from clear daylight to the raking gold of evening.

"We should get going soon," Carl said with a squeeze. "You can't fly in the dark."

"Sure I can."

"You can? Really?"

"What, you never had an air raid at night?"

Carl froze. Of course he had. Air raid alarms blaring, the sky lit up with searchlights and anti-aircraft fire, hunkering down in a dark dugout, praying not to die in a cave-in, with tons of earth pressing down from every side . . .

"Sorry," Shirley said, drawing back into himself. "I shouldn't have said that."

That flinch was was worse than the momentary vertigo. Of course Carl never wanted to think about night raids ever again, but they were in the past. In rational moments, he could tell himself that they could no longer hurt him. But Shirley's armor, drawn across his face like a veil, censoring what he said, making him tiptoe on eggshells in Carl's vicinity . . . there was nothing past about that.

"It's alright," Carl said quickly, though it wasn't. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine."

"You . . . went away for a second there."

How could he say it wasn't true? It was always there, so distressingly close to the surface, just waiting for an excuse to erupt. And now he had a new image to contend with. Carl had imagined many things about Shirley's war: Shirley taking off in an S.E.5a with leader-streamers flying, Shirley swooping through the rolls and feints of a dogfight, even Shirley delivering a hot burst of machine gun fire that sent an opponent spiraling toward his doom in a plume of black smoke. Somehow, he had never imagined him hurtling through the cool night, serene and steady, as screaming, burning, bursting death erupted in wreaths of fire among the cowering mudmen.

"I . . . I just didn't realize you flew bombers."

Shirley released a pent-up breath. "I didn't. I sometimes escorted them, though."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, Kit. I shouldn't tell you things like that. I won't."

As if his silence weren't one of the few things worse than a night raid.

"'Course you should," Carl said, grasping at slick leaves that slipped through his hands, sinking away below the surface of some impenetrable sea. "You can tell me anything. Really. Don't . . . not tell me things."

Shirley offered only a tight, skeptical grimace.

"I'm really fine," Carl assured him. "Things are better here." He gestured skyward and seaward, encompassing the freedom of air and space and movement, the comfort of waves and birds and eelgrass.

"Well, sunset's not for another couple of hours," Shirley said. "If we head back now, we'll be home with plenty of daylight left."

Carl couldn't — wouldn't — let the day end like that. "Let's stay a bit longer," he said, hoping he didn't sound desperate. "You didn't even get to swim yet."

Shirley gave him a look of such frank appraisal that it might have been insulting if Carl had not been so glad of its honesty. "You're really alright?"

"Yes," Carl said, undoing his shirt buttons. "And I'll be even better in the water."

"Well . . . if you insist."

"I do."

There was no more talk of air raids, nor of eelgrass, if it came to that. And when the Curtiss chased the sunset westward over the Gulf, Carl gazed out over the glory of peach and lavender, knowing there was nowhere he would rather be.

* * *

*For more on the Rocher aux Oiseaux lighthouse and its keepers, check out the short essay on lighthousefriends dot com

**Charles Gordon Hewitt (1885-1920) was an English-born entomologist who was a leader of early 20th-century conservation efforts in Canada. In 1909, he was appointed "Dominion Entomologist of Canada" (which was a real job, so just FYI for anyone else writing Carl in the future) and spent his short career working for the Department of Agriculture and the Department of the Interior. He helped pass many pieces of early conservation legislation, such as a 1916 treaty with the United States to protect migratory birds. He was not any less racist than most white Canadians of his era, but he did at least acknowledge that First Nations people were experts in land management and wildlife conservation, even if those acknowledgements were generally made in patronizing and insulting ways. Hewitt died of the flu in February 1920, only 35 years old. His posthumously published _The Conservation of the Wild Life of Canada_ (1921) will cozy up to _Walden_ on Carl Meredith's bookshelf.

***Joshua 10:13


	12. Friends (Part I)

Content Warning: discussion of suicide (not canon characters, not directly witnessed)

* * *

 **Friends**

 **(Part I)**

* * *

October 1920

* * *

There were no assigned carrels in Gardner Memorial Library, but that did not stop Shirley thinking of this one as his. He liked to work his problem sets here, on the bare oak desk with its empty bookshelf above, without the din and clatter of the vault-ceilinged reading room. Unseen, uncluttered, he could lose himself in a proof of Euler's formula or in mapping a celestial sphere and emerge an hour or three later, always blinking surprise at the close-written pages that had appeared as if by alchemy.

No one else knew this place, or so Shirley told himself, and believed it until the day when his elliptical geometry was interrupted by the too-close scent of sandalwood and hair oil.

"Come with me," Wilkie whispered low over his shoulder without greeting.

Shirley closed his eyes a moment, to gird himself, he thought, though there was enough savoring in the steeling to make his answer dart out keener than he had intended.

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Yes, you are," Wilkie said, lounging against the edge of the desk. "Pack your things."

The huff of Shirley's incredulity was sharp enough to ruffle the drying pages.

"Trust me, Blythe, you want to come with me."

Shirley could have picked apart every word of that sentence, each simultaneously laughable and true. Instead, he cut to the heart with a single syllable. "Why?"

Wilkie's amber gaze was unflinching. "Because this isn't about you."

"No?"

"It's about Meredith."

* * *

Shirley had been to Wilkie's suite before, but never on his own. They couldn't hold large parties here, in the penthouse of one of Kingsport's better hotels, but Saturday night often found Wilkie and Shirley poised across the poker table from one another, with the Swede and Roger Hallett and whichever other _philoi_ Wilkie found particularly amusing at the moment. Shirley considered himself lucky that Wilkie had a taste for the callowest of Kingsport's wealthier sons, and saw no reason he shouldn't alleviate them of their cash while Wilkie pursued their other assets.

Now, with just the two of them, Shirley's skin prickled to the undercurrents cutting across the elegantly-appointed sitting room. He was reluctant even to remove his hat.

Standing at the bar cart near the marble-manteled fireplace, Wilkie tipped a crystal decanter in Shirley's direction.

"Can I get you a drink?"

Shirley scowled. "It's two o'clock in the afternoon."

"Two drinks, then?"

"Why am I here, Wilkie?"

Wilkie held the decanter up to the light and peered critically at the pale liquid. Evidently dissatisfied, he placed it back on the cart and retrieved a second decanter from a glass-fronted hutch. Smaller than the first, its contents glowed tawny-gold as Wilkie poured two generous glasses.

"You're here because I need to tell you a story, fly boy."

Shirley frowned but took the proffered glass, if only to get on with things. It pressed into his palm, thick and glittering where the electric lights caught its facets.

Wilkie sipped from his own glass and rested against the arm of the scarlet-tassled sofa.

"This past summer, I got a letter from a friend at Harvard," he began. "We were at school together before the war. Good chap, even if he is a Yank. He said the boys down there have been having quite a bit of trouble recently."

"Fascinating," Shirley said dully.

"Just shut up and listen," Wilkie hissed, his tone earnest enough to re-focus Shirley's attention. "There was this kid, see? Wilcox. Had a bad breakup with an older man and got caught up in some blackmail. He ended up confessing everything to his brother: lovers, parties, favorite haunts. Wilcox knew he'd be disgraced once the blackmailer showed what he had, so he turned on the gas in his bedroom overnight, and bye-bye Wilcox."

The words were blunt, but the customary ironic drawl had receded. It almost sounded as if he cared.

"That might have been the end of it," Wilkie continued, "but his parents started going through his mail. He was a popular guy at Harvard. Got lots of letters. Chatty letters. Naming names. Who's going home with whom and who's hosting the next drag night and all that. The brother sent the letters off to the Dean at Harvard, and pretty soon they had an investigation going, see? A list of names. Hauling in students, townies, alumni, even a professor, and asking for details."

"What happened?" Shirley asked, fearing he knew the answer.

Wilkie shrugged. "Some expulsions. They even kicked out a congressman's son. And there were a few more gas accidents. The boys didn't roll on one another, though. Gotta give 'em that. They didn't roll. The Dean caught a few, but mostly they were the ones named in the original letters."

Shirley cleared his throat, contemplating the rippling gold in his glass. "Well, I'm sorry for your friend," he said. "But I don't see what all this has to do with any of us, least of all Carl."

Wilkie sipped his scotch, paused, and sipped again, indifferent to Shirley's glower. When it pleased him, he said, "Meredith's friends with Harold Noyes, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Has he written Harry any letters?"

A prickle of fear danced up Shirley's arm on icy tiptoe. He didn't know precisely where this was heading, but there was a whiff of smoke in the air that had not bothered him previously.

"Maybe. I dunno."

"Gotta keep a better eye on your boy there, Blythe," Wilkie smirked.

"I'm not his jailer," Shirley replied, refusing to rise to the bait. "He can write to whomever he likes."

"I'm sure he does," Wilkie said, sliding a shrewd smile around the rim of his glass. "In fact, I know it for certain."

"Snooping now, are you?"

Wilkie sniffed. "I hardly need to. Between Harry and that little goldilocks girlfriend of his . . . who knew you were so magnanimous?"

A small something — some secret sinew long stretched — snapped, and Shirley flared up hot. "God, Wilkie, what do you want? If all this is just about luring me away from Carl, it's . . ."

"Shut up," Wilkie spat. "I'm not trying to separate you from your drawers."

"There's a first time for everything."

Wilkie's eyes fluttered heavenward with an air of long-suffering affront. "Believe it or not, I'm looking out for you, Blythe. And for Meredith, too."

Shirley snorted. "Spare us your favors."

"Fine. Then I guess I shouldn't tell you that the city coroner carried Harry Noyes out of his residence hall on a slab this morning."

Shirley started. "What? That's nothing to joke about."

Wilkie took a deep pull from his glass. "Who's joking?"

"Was it . . . an accident?" Foolish thought, the feeble suggestion of a scrabbling mind.

"Sure. Faulty gas fixtures everywhere these days."

Shirley pictured Harry Noyes, good-natured and ruddy in his mink stole, laughing at Anthony Marckworth as he cut in to dance with Carl on a dim and crowded floor.

 _Oh, shit. Carl_.

"Why'd he do it?"

Wilkie shrugged. "Search me. Meredith might know. They wrote to one another all through the summer. Didn't you know? When you two went back to Eden."

"I suppose so."

"Well I know so. Do you think he was discreet?"

Suddenly it all fell into place. Harry's parents would come. Soon. They would gather up Harry's belongings. They would read his letters. They would read _Carl's_ letters.

Shirley crossed to the bar cart and let his glass chime against the brass tray.

"What do we do?"

"Well, you could sit down and actually drink that . . ."

Shirley rounded on Wilkie, his body coiled for immediate action. "We have to do _something_. Have Harry's parents arrived yet?"

Wilkie tilted his head back, his swinging leg languid against the sofa. "From Fredericton? They'll be at least a day."

"Then we have time," Shirley said, beginning to pace. "We could break into Harry's residence hall tonight. Clear out all his drag. Find his papers. _Burn_ his papers . . ."

With the attitude of a magician who has maneuvered his audience with exquisite skill, Wilkie reached into the inner lining of his jacket and produced a sheaf of envelopes. Fanning them like a winning hand, he held them out at arm's length. Even at a distance, Shirley recognized Carl's scrawl.

"Already done, Blythe."

With effort, Shirley prevented his jaw from falling open, but he could do nothing about his racing heart.

"So you've caught up at last," Wilkie said. "I burned most of it. Diaries. Letters. Snaps. But I thought Meredith might like to have these back. For keepsakes."

Shirley stretched out a hand, but Wilkie drew the letters back, out of reach. In the breathless moment that followed, Shirley attempted to think of a single thing he would not do to get them.

It was fortunate that Wilkie was satisfied by having Shirley at his mercy and did not insist on calling in his debt. Instead, he tapped the letters once against his chest, then made a gift of them.

Shirley's finger flicked along the edges of the envelopes. There were rather more than he had expected.

"Did you . . . read them?"

"They're quite fascinating," Wilkie drawled. "I learned all sorts of terribly interesting things. Of course, the real question is: are _you_ going to read them?"

Shirley paused, but only for a moment. "No," he said, and slipped the letters into his jacket pocket.

"Suit yourself," Wilkie said, one corner of his mouth curling inward and upward. "If I were you, though, I'd want to know."

"Well you aren't."

"Have it your way. But Blythe? Tell Meredith to be more careful. For all our sakes. This isn't paradise."

There was nothing to say to that, so Shirley said nothing. The letters were secure and heavy in his pocket, a cargo of tiny bombs with Wilkie's fingerprints all over the fuses.

"You really aren't going to drink that?" Wilkie asked, thrusting his chin toward the bar cart.

Shirley considered the whisky. It slid around the crystal curve as a living thing, flashing quick and amber. He didn't need to be told that he'd never drunk anything half so fine. Wilkie lifted his own glass in salute and Shirley returned the gesture, then brought the cup to his lips and took a burning draught.

Wilkie grinned, something like triumph stretching his smile to its limit.

Shirley let the drink crackle through him, radiating warm strength from the center of his chest to his extremities. Truth be told, he wanted to take another sip, but resisted.

"I have to go," he said. "I have to find Carl before he hears about Harry from someone else."

Wilkie slid from the sofa and sidled up alongside, brushing shoulders and retrieving Shirley's glass before it had stopped vibrating against the tray.

"More for me," he smiled, pouring the remainder of Shirley's drink into his own glass and taking an audacious swallow.

It would be best to ignore his provocations. But Shirley could not deny that Wilkie had done a brave and valuable service, whatever his motives. No amount of goading could make Shirley read those letters, but he was truly grateful to have them safe in his possession.

"Wilkie," he said, voice low and fervent, "thank you."

"I'm entirely self-interested, Blythe."

"I know. But thank you anyway."

Shirley extended his right hand, never taking his eyes from Wilkie's face. Somewhere behind the sardonic expression, he thought he could discern a genuine emotion, though he did not wish to give it the power of a name.

Wilkie did not take his hand. Instead, he grasped Shirley's forearm near the elbow, pressing wrist to muscle and muscle to wrist in a salute of comrades. Shirley swallowed and returned the embrace.

They stood that way a heartbeat longer than necessary or proper. Then Shirley was free, or nearly so. Hurrying toward the door, he crammed his hat back onto his head and was halfway into the hall when Wilkie called him back with a question like a blow to the face.

"Blythe?"

"What?"

"Who's Kit?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

On May 13, 1920, a Harvard student named Cyril Wilcox died by suicide. After his death, his family turned his papers, including letters from his gay friends and lovers, over to the Harvard administration. Over the next several weeks, Harvard conducted an investigation (called the Secret Court) that led to the expulsion of several undergraduates, a PhD student, and a Dental School student. Others were caught up in the investigation as well, including a recent grad and some local men (Harvard tried to have one fired from his job as a waiter). The dental student, Eugene Cummings, committed himself to the school infirmary after his interrogation and died by suicide there on June 11. Harvard did everything it could to see that the other expelled students were not admitted to other universities, sending scathing letters to Brown and McGill when an expelled student applied there. The University also contacted potential employers any time someone attempted to verify that the applicants had attended Harvard, sending very bad character references.

In the aftermath of the Secret Court, some of the expelled students sent taunting letters to various administrators, saying that they knew dozens of other gay students at Harvard, but would never reveal their names. Some of the expelled students' parents also wrote letters, which are excellent sources for understanding how educated, middle- and upper-class parents in the 1920s responded to allegations that their sons were gay. The most sympathetic parents lambasted Harvard for expelling their sons, arguing that the University should have offered treatment to help the students overcome their "problem," and blaming administrators for allowing an environment that had allowed their sons to fall under bad influences. As far as I have been able to discover, none argued that Harvard should have left the students alone. As recently as 2002, when the student newspaper, _The Harvard Crimson_ , published information about the Secret Court, an undergraduate responded with a letter calling the expulsions an "appropriate disciplinary move by the College" that was necessary to punish "homosexuals, whose activities are not merely immoral but perverted and unnatural." That viewpoint caused an uproar on campus in 2002, but was the view of the overwhelming majority in 1920.


	13. Friends (Part II)

Content warning: discussion of suicide continued (not graphic)

* * *

 **Friends**

 **(part II)**

* * *

October 1920

* * *

Carl had not wanted to go to the Kingsport City Morgue, but it was the only place he was sure he could catch Mr. and Mrs. Noyes, and he wanted to offer his condolences. The only other place he might have found them was at Harry's room, but somehow that was more terrible than the morgue. Carl had never been to the morgue before, and neither had Harry, as far as he knew, so the two did not seem connected in any way. Carl could sit in the cool, tiled corridor on a narrow bench next to Anthony Marckworth and concentrate on what he would say to Mr. and Mrs. Noyes when they emerged from the coroner's office.

If he had gone to Harry's room instead, he would have thought of Harry. Impossible not to. Harry with his brass-tipped cigarette holder, trying to teach a bewigged Anthony how to blow smoke rings. Harry cranking his gramophone and cackling at Carl's attempts to follow his footwork. Harry offering for the dozenth time to let Carl borrow something sparkly.

"Come on, lovey," he'd said just last Saturday night, draping a fringed shawl around Carl's shoulders. "Just a few sequins . . ."

"Oh, leave him alone," Anthony chided, slapping Harry with his fan. "He doesn't have to wear drag if he doesn't want to."

"But it's just us here."

"It looks like fun," Carl admitted, laughing as Anthony pursed his rouged lips outrageously. "I just can't."

"Why not?"

Carl had hesitated, but Harry was right. It was only the three of them, safe together in Harry's room. So Carl had told his friends about the Good Conduct Club and how Jerry and Faith used to force him wear Una's dresses for punishment and how he couldn't stand to wear women's clothes after that, not even for the battalion theatricals.* Anthony had clucked his tongue in sympathy, but no, it was alright, they were only children, they hadn't known what they were doing, and anyway it was a long time ago. But no drag, thanks. Maybe someday.

Later, when Carl bid them goodnight, Harry had taken the silk scarf from his own neck and tucked it into Carl's pocket, the vivid peacock blue a gaudy contrast to the plaid of his coat.

"For someday," Harry said, and pressed a warm, jasmine-scented kiss to Carl's cheek.

That was the last time Carl had seen him. In retrospect, it seemed like a sign; Harry loved that scarf. How often had he told the story of the handsome cafe owner in Nice who had given it to him? Carl should have known he wouldn't just give it away. At the time, it had seemed like kindness, but now he recognized the farewell.

Less than a week ago. It seemed ridiculous that you couldn't reach back across such a small space and set things right.

"He didn't say anything to you?" Carl asked Anthony. "Nothing at all?"

Anthony shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"But why . . ." Carl's next question was cut off by the shriek of a door hinge and a clattering of shoes on the gray-tiled floor. The coroner was shaking hands with an older man and woman and a tall, sandy-haired man who looked enough like Harry that Carl guessed he must be his brother.

Carl and Anthony stood to greet the trio as they walked past.

"Mr. and Mrs. Noyes?"

The woman looked up from her sodden handkerchief, surprised, but her son urged her to keep walking. He stood before Carl and Anthony, arms crossed over his chest.

Harry's brother waited until his parents had disappeared through the double doors before asking, "Who are you?"

Anthony extended a hand, but dropped it when the man only glared. "I'm Anthony Marckworth. This is Carl Meredith. We're Harry's friends."

" _Friends_ , huh? I'll bet."

His tone made Carl's flesh creep. "We only wanted to offer our condolences," he said.

The tall man leaned close, hissing under his breath. "You stay away from my parents. You and the rest of your _friends._ " Carl had never imagined that anyone could infuse such a lovely word with such loathing. The man sneered, his upper lip retreating in disgust. "Harry used to be a good kid. Let them think he still was."

With that, he crammed a gray fedora onto his head and stalked out after Mr. and Mrs. Noyes. He certainly did not hear Carl call faintly after him:

"He was."

* * *

". . . stay to do research over the summer?"

When Carl did not answer, Nellie stopped walking. He may not have been paying attention to what she was saying, but he did notice that she was no longer by his side. Carl shook himself awake.

"Sorry, Nellie. What were you saying?"

"You haven't heard a single word," she sighed, mildly annoyed. "What's wrong, Carl?"

"Nothing. I must be tired."

"You've been distracted all week."

Carl turned and began to walk again, rustling through the dry leaves that blanketed the sidewalk. Nellie shuffled along beside him, keeping pace, but waiting for him to speak. It was possible to hear anything you liked in the crackling whispers beneath their feet, or nothing at all.

Eventually, Carl said, "Did you hear about that junior? The one who died in the residence hall?"

"The gas accident?" Nellie asked. "Of course. Frightened me half to death. My roommates and I checked all our fixtures right away."

Was that what people were calling Harry now? _The gas accident?_

"Well, he was a friend of mine."

"Oh, Carl! I'm so sorry," she said, blue eyes gone round. "I had no idea."

Carl felt a bizarre urge to comfort her. He hadn't meant to share any of this with Nellie and now she was distressed and he felt responsible.

"It's alright," he said, though if pressed on the question of what, exactly, was alright, he would not have had a ready answer.

"Where did you know him from?" Nellie asked, her voice all soft solicitude.

 _You stay away from my parents. You and the rest of your friends._

"We used to play darts together."

"Darts?"

"I was never any good."

By this time, they had reached Nellie's house, a settled little abode not unlike Aster House, and of similar vintage. The flowers in the front garden had all passed, leaving only their wizened stalks and sleeping bulbs to bide their time til a distant, dreamt-of spring.

Carl paused by the door, but Nellie did not reach for her key. Instead, she stepped across the veranda to a bench swing and motioned for Carl to join her. Amazing how the gentle pressure of a single toe pressed to the peeling floorboards could cast them adrift on soothing waves, back and forth, like being rocked in a cradle.

"He survived the whole war, you know," Carl said, when the motion and Nellie's warm arm alongside his had lulled him. "Harry, I mean."

"Harry," Nellie repeated. "Did you know him from the army, then?"

"No. He was in the ambulance corps."

That was as much as Carl knew about Harry's wartime service. Ambulance corps. Ten days' leave in Nice with the black-eyed cafe owner. Peacock-blue scarf. There was certainly more to it than that. Why had he never asked? Maybe there would have been some answers there . . .

"That's a noble thing to do. He must have been brave."

"He was."

Carl was not sure how he came to be holding Nellie's hand, only noticing now that he was, and not having the energy to puzzle out the whys and wherefores. Her fingers were firm and compact, with a little nub of pencil-callous on the knuckle of her ring finger. All that drawing, he supposed.

"How awful," she said, "to survive so much and then die in a senseless accident safe at home."

"Yes."

"Is there anything I can do? Is there a memorial service? I could go with you."

"No, there's no service."

Nellie seemed surprised by that, blinking in consternation, rousing again that urge to offer her comfort, as if she were the one bereaved.

"He was from New Brunswick," Carl explained. "His parents came . . ."

 _Harry used to be a good kid. Let them think he still was._

He narrow avoided sobbing, but there was no hiding the tremor, nor the sudden ferocity of his grip.

"Oh, Carl," Nellie covered their linked fingers with her free hand. "Let me help you. Any way I can. I have the notes from this week. Everything you never wanted to know about the lifecycles of zooplankton . . ."

This drew a weak smile. "Thanks, Nellie."

"Anything. Just say the word."

She caressed his cheek, palm as cool and light as a lily petal. Carl did not pull away.

Nellie's kiss was nothing like Shirley's. Sweet breath conjured the ghosts of sun-kissed strawberries, of May breezes and flower crowns, an island of green in the midst of imminent November. It was not an insistent kiss, asking nothing but that he should accept it.

He did.

When she left him, he missed her. That, more than anything, kept him from opening his eye, not sure whether he was hoping to find her vanished or still sitting by his side. When he got up the courage to look, she was just where he had feared she would be.

* * *

As soon as Carl walked in the door, Shirley saw that he needed to go out again. The room was too small to pace satisfactorily, forcing Carl to turn every three or four steps, his agitation vibrating in tighter and tighter oscillations. Shirley didn't even bother to ask whether he wanted to go for a walk, merely retrieving the plaid coat from the floor beneath the peg and chivvying Carl out of the boarding house.

They went to the park, the only place in Kingsport where Carl could breathe. Nearly November again, and Shirley thought of frogs and ponds and the day he had begun to understand just what sort of wounds Carl carried. They did not sit. Carl was overflowing with nervous energy, so they walked and walked and walked, Shirley grateful to whomever had set aside all these generous acres.

On their second loop past the harbor, Carl blurted, "I want to tell Nellie about us."

"About us?"

"Yes. About you and me. Us."

Shirley had been expecting a fathomless quandary to do with the unknowable workings of dead men's minds. He was almost relieved to be presented with something so simple.

"No."

"She kissed me."

That wasn't surprising.

"And I kissed her back."

Shirley stutter-stepped, but kept walking. A point to Wilkie, God damn him.

"I want to tell her," Carl continued. "She deserves the truth."

Maybe she did. If he were honest with himself, Shirley liked Nellie Fletcher. He had not spent very much time with her, but whenever he had, she had impressed him as intelligent, cheerful, and brave. Still, she was an outsider. Too many people knew too much already.

"You can't tell her about us," Shirley said, not without regret.

"Why not?"

The question was sharp enough to make Shirley go gently. After all, none of this was Carl's fault. Nor Nellie's, come to that.

"Because she likes you," he said. "She'll be hurt. You can't hand her that sort of ammunition when you break her heart."

"I'm not going to break her heart," Carl protested.

When Shirley did not answer, Carl stopped walking, staring down the pebbled shore to the lapping waves of the harbor. "Nellie wouldn't betray me," he said, kicking a stone. "She's not like that."

"Isn't she?"

"No! She's my friend."

Shirley took a calming breath. No need to put him on the defensive. "I know. She's a good friend. But how well do you really know her?"

Carl scowled. "As well as anybody. She's incredibly kind. And smart and interesting and generous and . . ."

He paused.

"Pretty?" Shirley supplied.

"That isn't what I meant," Carl said, though he looked resolutely out to sea.

Far out in the harbor, a canvas sail scudded across the horizon, a red pennant beckoning from its mast. Shirley watched until it was swallowed by a pine-dark spit of land, knowing it must have emerged on the other side, even if it was invisible from this beach.

"Isn't it?"

Carl blew out a breath, half exasperation, half resignation. "So what if it is? It doesn't matter."

"It matters a little . . ."

"No it doesn't," Carl said sharply. "I'm not exactly in the market."

Keeping his voice resolutely even, Shirley swallowed. "Maybe you should be."

"What?"

"You should consider it. Nellie, I mean."

Carl goggled at him, incredulous. "What do you mean, consider Nellie?"

Shirley bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. "I'm not trying to be opaque. You could be with Nellie. Get married. Have a family. You'd be good at it. I wasn't kidding when I wrote that."

"You can't be serious."

"Quite serious," Shirley mumbled, reflecting that plummeting to a fiery demise did have its advantages after all.

Shirley thought he knew Carl's face in every possible mood from terror to ecstasy, but he was unprepared to see his features rearranged orthogonally into unmistakable fury.

"You . . . want to talk about . . . _broken hearts_?" Carl growled. "Those letters . . ."

They had never talked about those months after the Armistice, when Shirley had retreated into silence and let the ocean yawn between them. Staring down the barrel of the future, he had known that Carl's best chance at peace lay in living a conventional life. He wasn't convinced he had been wrong. Perhaps he had not explained it well enough in writing.

"Carl, you could be safe," he said earnestly. "That's all I ever wanted for you. To find a Nellie. If I hadn't come back, you could be with her right now. No impediments."

Carl never had made good on his promise to punch Shirley on the night he came home, but it seemed a distinct possibility at the moment. He seemed to tremble and Shirley resisted the urge to reach out a soothing hand.

When Carl did speak, his words drooped across the space between them, the very sound waves enervated so that Shirley had to strain to catch them as they fell short. "Do you honestly think that if you hadn't come back that I would be here at Redmond? That I would have picked myself up and come to Kingsport all ready to study and make friends? Find a nice girl? Build a ' _normal_ ' life?"

There was enough venom in this last to make Shirley wince. The stretching silence raised the possibility that it was not a rhetorical question. "I hoped that you would," he answered eventually.

"If I were very lucky," Carl said on the edge of hearing, "I'd still be curled up in the garret at the manse."

Shirley had never imagined that. In those long months of silence, flying desultory missions and wandering the thrumming streets of Paris alone, he had imagined Carl by the pondside, in green valleys and shores like this one, at Redmond, and in a tidy little house, playing with his blue-eyed children. The manse garret hadn't come into it, to say nothing of the unlucky.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Well, you did." Carl turned toward the sea, blind side to Shirley, his voice not nearly as flat as he was trying to make it. "You dropped off the face of the earth and left me behind. Just like that. Just decided you were done with me and that was it."

"It . . . it wasn't like that . . ."

Carl rounded on him. "Well what was it like, then? You only ever tell me half of anything."

Perhaps silence was not the best answer to such a charge, but it was all Shirley had. Luckily, Carl was on enough of a roll to fill the gap.

"You know what the worst part is?" he asked, spreading his hands open before him. "The worst part is that I'm still grateful for that half because at least you haven't gone completely silent again. It makes me feel pathetic."

Shirley was not certain how the conversation had arrived at this point. "You don't tell me everything either . . ."

Carl made no attempt to dampen the huff of derision that came out half-snort, half-laugh. "What, exactly, do I not tell you?"

"What about Nellie?"

"What about her? That happened an hour ago."

Shirley licked his lips. He hadn't planned on asking, not ever, but if they were going to have this conversation . . .

"What about Harry?"

"Harry?" Carl seemed genuinely confused.

"Your letters," Shirley said, feeling clumsy. "I didn't read them. But . . ."

"You want to read my letters? To Harry?"

"No," Shirley winced. "It's just . . . well . . ."

Carl was already digging in his coat pocket. The loose papers he flung at Shirley's chest were already in much worse shape than they had been scant days ago. Read and re-read by the look of them.

"Go ahead," Carl said. "Maybe you'll find where I could have said the right thing. I sure haven't. Not for lack of trying, though."

Shirley bent down, picking up one of the fragile leaves that had fluttered to his feet. Close-written in that unmistakable scrawl that always tended to tilt up at the end of the line, just as he remembered. Signature splashed jauntily across the bottom.

"You signed them _Carl_. . ." he said, wondering.

"Gee, what a scandalous revelation."

Shirley felt entirely wrong-footed. He checked the bottom of another letter, but it was the same. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I just . . . Wilkie implied . . ."

There was more laugh in the recipe of disbelief this go-round. "Wilkie? Good source of impartial information is he? What did he imply?"

"Just . . . that . . . that you were signing them _Kit_."

Carl blinked. "Kit?" The unaccustomed edge of the last few minutes had fallen out of his voice, leaving only soft disbelief. "I wouldn't. That's . . . not for other people."

"I know," Shirley said just as softly.

"Shirley, I wouldn't. Really."

Shirley had never felt so stupid. To listen to Wilkie instead of trusting Carl . . .

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just thought . . . how would he know about that?"

Carl shrugged. "How does he know anything?" Then, tilting his head with curiosity. "You really didn't read them, did you? You would have seen right away that it wasn't true."

Shirley rubbed a hand over his face. He'd fallen for the bluff. How _stupid_.

"Of course I didn't read them," he said, sinking onto a half-dry rock, deflated. "They were private. You don't have to tell me everything."

Carl looked down at him and for a moment, Shirley thought he might stay that way, as if he were a judge on his bench or a priest on his dais. But there was room on the rock for two. Carl took a breath and closed the distance to take the seat beside him.

"Neither do you," he said, nudging Shirley's arm with his shoulder. "But maybe more than half?"

Shirley opened his clenched fists. More than half the truth? It seemed unwise, but Carl was staring at him expectantly. Something true, something that mattered.

"You know that at the end of the war, I was in a crash," Shirley said as steadily as he could. "I thought I was going to die. I had a moment of perfect clarity while I was falling. I could see you, and the life you could have without me. A happy, normal life. And I was so . . . _relieved_ . . . to know that you would be safe, that I didn't mind dying."

Carl made a soft, strangled sound, but did not interrupt.

"All I had to do was do nothing," Shirley shrugged. "It would have been all over in a minute. But imagining you . . . it occurred to me that I'd never see you again. So I fought back. It was completely selfish. I couldn't give you up, even to keep you safe. I . . . the plane was crashing . . . I . . . got out. Of the cockpit. I stood on the wing and thought of you and then I just . . . jumped."

Carl blanched. "You . . . jumped?"

"Yes."

More silence, except for the waves coming in. Shirley watched a small bit of dry, white shell among the pebbles near the end of their seat. One wave crept up to kiss it, then another, and then it was engulfed.

"Why did you stop writing?" Carl asked.

Shirley sighed. No time for half truths. "I was ashamed of myself. For being so selfish. I really thought that you'd be better off without me."

Carl chewed his lip. "Do you think Harry thought people would be better off without him?"

"Maybe. You knew him better than I did."

"Not well enough," Carl murmured. "We're not, you know. Better off. I wish he could have known that."

Shirley looked up and down the pebbled beach, then put a hand over Carl's on the rock between them and squeezed. He was very glad that Carl did not push him away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I never know what to say. I don't want to make things worse for you."

Carl met his gaze frankly. "Then just tell me the truth. Even if it's hard to hear. Can you promise me that? That you won't hide from me?"

Could he promise that? It seemed a momentous concession, to forsake all walls and protections, even those he had erected for Carl's benefit. Didn't loving someone mean that you were supposed to protect them, even when it cost you dearly? Isn't that what men were supposed to do?

But the blue eye was clear and fearless as ever it had been. Carl was no shy maiden, to be kept in a locked tower, safe and cherished and patronized. Maybe no one was.

"I won't hide from you," Shirley promised.

"You'll tell me the whole truth."

Shirley grimaced. "More than half?"

Carl chuckled. "I'll take it. I want you. Not pieces. Not hiding. There's more than enough of that already."

A surreptitious press of hand to hand seemed entirely inadequate acknowledgement, but perhaps that was the point.

"Do you see now why I have to tell Nellie the truth?" Carl asked. "I can't keep her guessing. She doesn't deserve that."

Shirley nodded. "You really do care about her, don't you?"

"Of course I do. That's why I have to tell her I'm yours."

* * *

He took her to the park, of course. Not to any of the sacred spots, neither his nor hers, not wanting to ruin them. Instead, he found an ordinary bench, exposed to the biting winds that kept other pedestrians away from the high ridge over the harbor.

She had looked at him, brimming with so much fragile hope that he almost could not do it. Had he ever really noticed before that her eyes were the delicate, lush blue of irises? Perhaps it would have been easier if she had only been intelligent and kind and generous, but she was beautiful as well and the truth was that he was not indifferent.

He found the words somewhere and saw at once that Shirley had been right to be cautious. She was not delicate like an iris; she was delicate like a live grenade.

For a terrible moment, he traced the arc through the sky, watching to see where it would fall.

When it did, there was the old rush of relief, _not here thank God_ , followed by throbbing shame. It may have missed him, but it still exploded somewhere.

* * *

Some weeks later, Jem passed a bowl of roasted sweet potatoes over the Aster House table to Carl and asked, "Is it true that Nellie Fletcher means to try for the Cooper Prize?"

Several heads snapped to attention, fixing Carl with looks of consternation and concern.

"Yes, I think she means to," Carl murmured in reply.

"The faculty are buzzing over it," Jem said. "Does she mean to go to medical school, then?"

Faith adjusted Sam on her lap so that he could not continue smashing his fist into her potatoes. "The Cooper's not just for medical school," she observed. "It's a cash prize, isn't it?"

"Yes," Jerry confirmed. "But I always heard that the committee favors students who are continuing their studies."

Nan frowned. "Is Nellie thinking of taking a graduate degree, Carl?"

"I think so."

Di cleared her throat. "I'm sure she will excel in whatever she chooses to do. And we all wish her the best."

Undeterred, Jerry looked thoughtful. "Have they ever given the Cooper to a girl before?"

"Well, I don't think they _give_ it to anyone," Carl said with a touch of asperity. "It has to be _taken_. But yes, she'd be the first woman."

"It's an awful time commitment," said Nan. "I'm sure I've heard Dad say that those were some of the most difficult years of his life."

Carl contemplated his plate, not daring to look at any of them just then.

"What do you think, Carl?" Jem asked. "Do you think she can take it?"

Let it never be said that Carl Meredith was disloyal.

"Yes. If anyone can, it's Nellie."

* * *

* _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 27: "A Sacred Concert"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **At this rate, it is going to take me a million words to get to back to the 1939 prologue. After this chapter, I'm going to start jumping around more. Pay attention to the dates, as a year or two may pass from chapter to chapter.**

 **Also, if you want to know how Wilkie knows about "Kit," the answer is in chapter 4.**


	14. After They've Seen Paree

**After They've Seen Paree**

* * *

March 1921

* * *

 _How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm_  
 _After they've seen Paree_  
 _How ya gonna keep 'em away from Broadway_  
 _Jazzin around and paintin' the town_  
 _How ya gonna keep 'em away from harm, that's a mystery_

\- "How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm (After They've Seen Paree)"  
(Joe Young and Sam M. Lewis, 1919)

* * *

It wasn't a club, not really. It was more like a floating craps game, rarely in the same place twice, with invitations passed by word of mouth a day or two before.

Tonight, they gathered in one of their few semi-regular venues. Mrs. Howard said she'd risk twice a year, but no more, and even that would cost them dear in cash and rum smuggled in from St. Pierre and Miquelon. Sure, it might look suspicious for a crowd of white boys from the college to be seen gathering at one of Patterson Street's few black-owned restaurants, but there was a back staircase that led from the alley up to a private dining room on the second floor. And with Prohibition on and the cops imagining communists lurking behind every bush, the color of Wilkie Marshall's money was what counted.

There was an upright piano in the room upstairs, and sweet, buxom Daisy Howard was always eager to earn some extra dough singing ragtime and jazz in a room full of men who didn't tend to leer. A keg of beer and tables pushed aside for dancing, with the lights low enough to leave some shadowed corners at the back, and it was a tiny, clandestine slice of heaven.

Crowded tonight. By their standards, at least. Wilkie's doing, no doubt. He had an infallible eye and an unfaltering nerve born of the sincere belief that he should have died on Hill 70 with his men, having been spared only by some cosmic bank error that would surely be corrected at any moment. Life might be a miracle or a sentence, but either way, they were all here now and meant to enjoy themselves.

Shirley was not much of a one for dancing. The unselfconscious abandon required to lose oneself in jazz did not come naturally to him. He preferred to sit with a beer, watching Carl attempt some of the more outlandish steps.

Carl gloried in the opportunity to cut loose every once in a while. All those years of not dancing, what with one thing and another, had finally burst like a popped seam. He didn't even seem to mind the noise or the crowd, not when he had the chance to give him self over to the music and the camaraderie of the other dancers. He missed Harry, Shirley knew. It had been months now, and there were still days when Carl would turn dull thinking of him. Between those bouts of sadness and the attacks that still seized him from time to time, good days were always a relief, worth savoring and protecting.

Tonight, Carl was leading a jolly little sophomore through an energetic Texas Tommy that threatened shins left and right. Shirley loved to watch him, trim and dapper in plus fours and a patterned vest, his striped jacket long ago discarded in deference to his exertions. The sophomore was keeping up, but just barely, and it wouldn't be long until they dissolved into complete chaos.

Shirley smiled, letting the thrum of the music and the warm glow of the amber-shaded lights wash over him. There were new faces tonight — a few freshmen, but also some sailors from the harbour and a high-spirited crew Wilkie had ferried over special from St. John for the occasion. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, all but a thin-faced man seated by the door, nursing one of Wilkie's famous gin rickeys and refusing several invitations to dance. Shirley had caught the man staring at him a couple of times, each time feeling a prickle of gooseflesh.

Shirley regarded the man surreptitiously, trying to place his face with little success. He had come in with the St. John boys, but didn't seem overly friendly with them; was he maybe one of Anthony Marckworth's new friends from St. Columbia Seminary?

Shirley was startled out of his reverie when Carl snuck up behind him and planted a surprise kiss on his cheek. The frantic ecstasy of the previous dance had concluded, the sophomore gone off to catch his breath while the pianist settled into a more relaxed tune.

"One dance," Carl said, twining an arm around Shirley's neck. "This is just a foxtrot. A slooooooow one."

Shirley smiled up into the flushed face, the irresistibly beseeching blue gaze. He generally allowed Carl to drag him out for one of the slower numbers, if only to savor the heady joy of dancing together in a crowded room and drawing no more than incidental attention. Tonight was no different. As Daisy crooned her way through "Do It Again" — _my lips just ache to have you take the kiss that's waiting for you_ — Carl took Shirley's hand and led him onto the floor.

This foxtrot was not like the slow dances Shirley had learned in the Glen before the War. No more chaste waltzes with stiff elbows and room for the Holy Ghost between you and your partner. These days, everyone danced cheek-to-cheek and chest-to-chest, leading one another not with agile tension in framed arms, but with the more immediate pressure of contact along the whole length of the body. No showing off with kicks and twirls here — this was a dance to be felt, rather than seen.

"You really should be leading," Carl chuckled. "You're taller."

Shirley shrugged. "You're a better dancer."

"You are a perfectly lovely dancer," Carl smiled, knowing full well that it was not a lack of grace that kept Shirley off the dance floor. "Pity you don't enjoy it more."

"I enjoy it just fine," Shirley said, consciously relaxing his hold so as not to fight against Carl's lead. "I just don't want to break an ankle trying to keep up with you."

They danced in contented silence for a while. Shirley savored the sight of Carl, happy and relaxed, quite as captivating up close as he was from across the room. The half-light forgave some of the newer lines in his face.

Chance brought them to the edge of the dance floor nearest the door and Shirley looked up to find the thin-faced man staring again. He couldn't put a name to the unease he felt under that scrutiny, but his flesh creeped uncomfortably.

"Do you know that guy?" Shirley asked. "The one sitting alone by the door?"

Carl looked over, frowning. "No. I think he's one of the Saint John boys."

"Maybe. He doesn't seem too friendly with them."

Carl was suddenly wary. "Do you think he's a problem?"

"Dunno," Shirley said. "He just . . . keeps looking at me."

Carl relaxed with a chuckle. "Half the room is looking at you."

"Only half?" Shirley smirked, turning his full attention back to Carl. "All this soft college living must be taking its toll."

Carl swatted him, grinning. "Only half at this exact moment."

They moved away from the door, back toward Daisy, who had sung the whole song through twice now, with plenty of flourishes and a bit of a piano solo thrown in as well. She wrapped up with a heartfelt riff on the refrain and was rewarded with appreciative applause.

"I'm going to go sit," Shirley said, bending toward Carl's ear as they clapped.

"Are you sure?" Carl asked with every pretense of innocence. "I'll bet I could could convince Daisy to come up with one of those old animal dances for you. The Bunny Hug? Turkey Trot? Chicken Flip?"

"Chicken Flip?" Shirley snorted, pulling Carl in close with a firm arm around his waist. "Thanks, but I'll pass. You keep on dancing, though. I like to watch."

"Then I'll be sure to put on a show."

Shirley chuckled and kissed him casually — oh, the thrill of that would never get old — before heading to the keg for a fresh glass.

Back at the table, Shirley smiled into his drink as Carl demonstrated a step sequence to a befuddled St. Columbia student. Seeing his partner's difficulty, Carl broke the move down into each of its constituent parts, coaxing and encouraging until the seminarian got the hang of it. They danced away together, moving in and out of Shirley's view. Somewhere out of sight, they switched partners, Carl emerging in Anthony's arms, pink-cheeked and laughing at some private joke pressed to his ear, their voices lost amid the music and the merry chimes of half-full glasses.

A blonde man Shirley didn't know passed by his table, then doubled back and pointed to an obviously empty chair. "Anyone sitting here?"

Shirley shook his head and the blonde man spun the chair toward himself on one leg, straddling it and placing his own beer on the table across from Shirley's.

"Quite a club you fellas have here," he said, flashing Shirley a winning smile. "Do you run it often?"

"Maybe once a month," Shirley answered. "When we can find a place."

"You a friend of Wilkie's?"

"Who isn't?"

The blonde man chuckled. "He sure knows how to have a good time. We're just lucky he's willing to share."

Shirley raised an eyebrow at this but was spared the necessity of replying by the sudden appearance of the man himself.

"Ah, don't waste your breath on that one, Prescott," Wilkie Marshall said, slapping the blonde man on the back. "Better men than you have tried and failed, time and time again."

"Oh?" asked the blonde man, appraising Shirley with a look of undisguised appreciation. "Why's that?"

At this opportune moment, Carl appeared, flushed and grinning. He leaned over Shirley's shoulder and plucked the beer from his hand with a proprietary air. Asking no permission, he took a long swig from the glass.

"Fuckin' married, those two," Wilkie scoffed, shaking his head.

Shirley shrugged apologetically, then brought his beer-less fingers to his lips and blew Wilkie a decorous kiss. Wilkie pretended to stagger as it struck him, reeling back a pace or two and clutching at his cheek. Prescott rolled his eyes and dragged his host away to pursue more promising opportunities elsewhere.

"Are you ready to go?" Carl asked.

Shirley looked him over, golden-brown hair mussed and slightly damp, red striped tie askew. "No," he smiled. "You're still dancing."

"I'm done. Let's go."

"You're feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He was, too. Relaxed and loose-limbed, as if he'd shaken off his usual tension and left it on the dance floor.

"Go have fun a bit longer."

"Come join me," Carl entreated, catching Shirley's hand and backing toward the dance floor.

"Maybe after I manage to get through a drink on my own."

"Are you sure?" Carl asked as Shirley reeled him back in toward the table. "I could teach you some of those new kicks . . ."

"That will probably require several drinks."

Carl bent and kissed Shirley soundly, pulling back only when an irrepressible grin stretched his lips tight and kept him from going deeper. A crisp, sour note of lime cut through the mellow beer and Shirley wanted more. He darted an arm around Carl's waist, pulling him into his lap, kissing him with an enthusiasm that caused nearby spectators to whoop at them. When half the room seemed to be cheering, Wilkie Marshall sauntered over to scold them.

"Alright, alright. That's enough, fellas."

Shirley waved a dismissive hand without desisting.

Wilkie made a show of sighing. "Do I need to turn the hose on you two?"

With one last, emphatic flourish, Shirley released Carl and sent him careening backward, breathless, toward the dance floor. The dancers welcomed Carl with jests and ribbing, but he paid them no mind. For a long moment, Shirley kept him tethered with a blazing look of promise that cut a swath through the revelers.

But then Daisy Howard was signaling the pianist for another up-tempo number and the jolly little sophomore had Carl by the hand and they were borne away by the laughing, kicking, smiling crowd.

Shirley allowed himself a smirk and toyed with the rim of his empty glass. Maybe just one more dance before it was time to call it a night . . .

The thought made him look toward the door. As he did, the thin-faced man rose from his seat and disappeared down the stairs with a last furtive glance at the dancers that doused all Shirley's joy in sudden, instinctual fear.

The back stairs were dark, the alley darker. Most of the snow was gone, but a scummy residue of dirty ice and last year's rotten leaves clogged the gutters, leaving the night's intermittent rain to pool in murky puddles of uncertain depth. Shirley kept on eye on the man all the way out to the street. It was late — very late — which meant he wouldn't lose him in a crowd, but he might lose him in the dripping gloom of the drizzly night. Hanging back, moving in shadow when he could, Shirley followed the man down one street and another, hoping fervently that he was following this poor bastard home.

He wasn't. Not unless the man lived at the Kingsport Police Station. Shirley stood under a scraggly maple across the road until the rat let the station door bang closed behind him. Then he turned and ran like hell.

Shirley burst through the front door of the restaurant and went straight for the bar, where Mrs. Howard stood, wiping glasses with a yellow dishrag. "Cops coming," he warned. There would be more than a few of her patrons who would prefer to make themselves scarce long before the police showed up with empty paddywagons and frustrated hopes of a bust.

Mrs. Howard frowned, but seemed unsurprised. "How long?"

"Dunno. Not long."

"Alright. Get your boys out," she ordered.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Don't be sorry. Just be gone."

Shirley made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He crashed through the door and wasted no time in sounding the alarm. "Cops coming! Everybody out!"

Perhaps a more measured announcement would have blunted the pandemonium, but there was no time. The music stopped, the dancers scattered. Someone seized the nearly-empty keg; Wilkie Marshall tossed the depleted bottles of gin into a sack. The room was ashambles, chairs overturned and empty glasses everywhere, but there was no help for it. Within a minute of Shirley's arrival, the revelers were pouring down the back stairs, spilling out into the night, and evaporating.

Shirley looked for Carl amid the crowd, but needn't have bothered. Carl appeared at his side as if by magic, taking his hand and letting the flow of bodies sweep them along into the night. They landed hard in the alley, hands coming unlinked by long custom.

They hurried toward the street, but when they reached it, Shirley stopped short.

"Go home, Kit," he said, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his coat to keep them there.

Carl regarded him warily. "Come with me."

"I'll be back later."

Carl shook his head. "What are you going to do?"

Shirley didn't answer.

"Just leave it alone," Carl pleaded. "Come home with me."

"I'll be there in an hour."

"No," Carl said. "Come with me. Please."

"Carl, you gotta get out of here." Shirley couldn't risk a parting kiss, not out in the open, even in the dark. So he turned his back and set off in the direction he had come only moments before.

Shirley waited beneath the same small tree across the street from the station. Three police cars rumbled by on their way to Mrs. Howard's, lights off, running quiet, followed by the lumbering, echoing wagon they used for busts.

 _Out of luck, boys._

Shirley feared that his own luck was at a low ebb. If the snitch had an ounce of brains, he'd leave the station by another door and get away clean.

He didn't.

Shirley followed the thin-faced man closer this time, closing the gap with every pace, until a last hurried step allowed him to grab the collar of the man's coat and shove him headfirst into the brick siding of another deserted alley. The informant grunted when his face collided with the dingy wall, and again each time Shirley struck him. A few heavy blows to the body doubled him over, but Shirley meant to make a point. He lifted the man up and sunk a fist into his face, once, twice, and then, with a sickening crunch, the bridge of the nose collapsed in on itself. Bubbling blood sprayed over Shirley's shirt when the man exhaled, collapsing to his knees. A swift kick to the soft, unprotected belly sent him gasping to the ground.

Shirley Blythe had killed many men. But none with his bare hands. It wasn't that he couldn't, but he didn't particularly need the hassle.

Crouching over the groaning form on the alley floor, Shirley dug his fingers into the scruff of the neck, giving the snitch a menacing shake. Leaning in close, Shirley could smell gin and lime on the man's breath: Wilkie's gin and the limes Carl had bought at the market on Friday, humming a sprightly dancehall tune as he dropped them one by one into a paper bag.

Rage flared and Shirley's grip tightened until the man yelped, aware that lethal options were suddenly back on the table. But Shirley only took a slow breath and hissed, "If I ever see you again, I'll be the last person you ever see. Understand?"

The man nodded feebly, eyes closed against the gore streaming from his split brow.

Shirley released him, sending him crashing into a gritty puddle where he lay facedown and inert. Without a backward glance, Shirley turned and stepped into the street with even, unhurried strides.

Carl was waiting in their room at the boarding house, pacing a narrow strip of floor. He looked up sharply when Shirley opened the door, crossing the room in two quick strides.

One step over the threshold and Shirley clutched Carl to his chest, burying his face in the lamp-gleaming hair and taking a deep gulp of air into lungs that had felt tight and shallow ever since the thin-faced man left his seat.

Carl pulled back and stared in horror at the stains spattered over Shirley's face and coat.

"Is that . . . _blood?_ "

"Not mine." Shirley said, withdrawing his throbbing hand from his pocket and examining it for the first time. The knuckles were red and scraped, with bleeding splits in two or three places. "Not much of it, anyway."

"Your hand!" Carl exclaimed, taking it in his own. "Should I call Di?"

Shirley shook his head. "No, don't bother her. I'm fine. Maybe . . . maybe some warm water though?"

Carl darted past Shirley to the stove. He tipped the steaming kettle into the washbasin as Shirley eased himself into a chair, groaning as he forced his muscles to relax. Carl brought the basin to the table, dipped a corner of towel, and began to bathe away the blood from Shirley's face, his neck, his already-crusting knuckles.

Shirley closed his eyes and gave himself over to Carl's ministrations. He knew this feeling very well, the taut, light-headed feeling he had always gotten after a dogfight, when he was safe on solid ground, but still coursing with adrenaline. He had already vomited on the way home, and knew he would crash soon. It was always the same. The difference now was that Carl was there to catch him on the way down.

When the hand was clean and wrapped in strips of towel, Shirley could begin to feel the familiar leaden fatigue hauling on his edges.

"It doesn't look too bad," Carl said of the hand as he coaxed Shirley into taking a sip of tea.

"It's not. I'm fine."

"And the snitch?" Carl asked. "Is he . . . I mean did you . . ."

What was worse? That Carl believed he really might have killed the man, or that he wasn't far wrong?

"He'll have a bad couple of days," Shirley muttered. "But he'll get over it."

Carl raised a brow, inclining his head toward the bandaged hand. "Couple of days?"

"Couple of weeks, maybe."

"You should have come home with me," Carl said, squeezing Shirley's uninjured hand.

Shirley made a feeble attempt at a smile, but couldn't sustain it. "Had to protect the line."

"It's not your job."

"Yes, it is."

"Come on," Carl whispered. "Let's get you to bed."

It was wonderful to be led by the hand, to make no decisions, to allow himself to be undressed stitch by stitch, lain gently on the clean sheets, tucked in snugly.

"Stay," was all he said, and Carl climbed in behind him, pulling the old tobacco-stripe quilt, trusty shield, over them both. Shirley felt an arm slip under his neck, drawing him close, and gentle fingers following the waves of his hair.

"Are you really alright?" Carl asked.

Shirley didn't answer, but pulled the quilt tighter around his shoulder and focused again on relaxing, letting himself melt into Carl's reassuringly solid warmth.

In a few minutes, he felt himself begin to fall into sleep as into a bottomless, black well and let himself go. He only hoped he wouldn't dream.


	15. Happily Ever After

For MrsVonTrapp, who has been waiting for this for a good long while.

And a shout-out to the Guest who leaves the awesome reviews. There's some more Baby Sam in here specifically for you; thanks for making my day with your comments!

Apologies for the length. You all are corrupting me. Back to shorter chapters after this.

* * *

 **Happily Ever After**

May, 1922

* * *

On Saturday morning, Una Meredith balanced a laden basket on her hip and knocked at the door of a tidy blue house on the outskirts of Lowbridge. It was not a large house, nor a fashionable one, but its lines were clean and honest, and the orderly beds of spring-blooming flowers in the front garden would have won the approbation of any Ladies' Aider on Prince Edward Island.

The woman who answered Una's knock was as neat as her home: daffodil apron trimmed with an inch of hand-tatted lace, fresh-scrubbed face pink and pleasant, graying hair swept into a reliable knot.

"Miss Meredith!" exclaimed Mrs. Palmer. "Goodness, child, we didn't expect you today!"

"It's Saturday," Una smiled as she stepped over the threshold. "Why shouldn't you expect me?"

Mrs. Palmer fussed, laying aside Una's hat and taking her basket before leading her through to the kitchen. Una couldn't help but smile as she accepted a cup of oolong at the kitchen table; it had taken many months to convince Mrs. Palmer that she was kitchen company, not parlor company. Well worth the effort, though.

"It's a tourtière," Una explained as Mrs. Palmer lifted the covered dish out of the basket.

Mrs. Palmer shook her gray head fondly. "Now, Miss Meredith, I'm sure you had plenty of cooking to do this week without worrying yourself over us."

"It was no trouble. The oven was warm anyway."

"You oughtn't have come today. Surely you have more than enough to do?"

Una smiled. "The wedding isn't until the afternoon. I have plenty of time."

"That's very kind of you, dear," Mrs. Palmer said as she put the tourtière away in the cold cupboard. "I know Lewis will be awful pleased to see you. Why don't you go in now? He'll have heard you come in."

Una finished her tea and rinsed her cup and saucer before Mrs. Palmer could intercept her. Then she padded back down the hall to what had once been the sitting room. The sofas had been moved, the knick-knacks packed away, and Mrs. Palmer's potted ferns removed to the parlor for hygienic reasons, but the tall, double-hung windows still admitted plenty of light and the hearth was still warm in winter. Tapping quietly at the door, Una let herself in and perched on a cushioned chair beside the bed in the center of the room.

"Hello, Lewis," she smiled.

Lewis Palmer blinked blonde lashes in her direction and held up his slate for her to read.

"Shouldn't you be at the wedding?" it said.

Una shook her head, still smiling. "As I've just told your mother, the wedding isn't for hours and hours, and Jerry hardly needs my help dressing himself."

Lewis scrubbed at the slate with a rag he kept for that purpose, then wrote, "YOU need to get ready, don't you?"

Una brushed away his concern. "And miss my Saturday with you? There's plenty of time."

She had not finished speaking before he began writing again. Una took the interval to look him over. There was no denying that Lewis Palmer was thinner than he should be. The feeding tube threaded through his nose and into his stomach kept him alive, but not plump. It wasn't easy for him to get much exercise either. The blast that had taken his jaw had riddled his torso with shrapnel, one vicious piece slamming into his spine and leaving his legs unresponsive. It was miraculous that he had survived the ambulance, let alone the CCS operating theatre, and then the torturous journey over land and sea and land and sea again to bring him home to his mother. Now Lewis spent his days in the bed at the center of the old sitting room, reading when he had the energy to sit upright, sleeping when he did not. Father Kirkland was working on getting him a wheelchair so that he could sit in the garden on sunny days.

Jawless, Lewis could not speak, but he could write. "Aren't you in the wedding party?"

Una shook her head. "No. Nan asked me to be, but I wanted to be on hand in case Faith needed help with the babies. Mrs. Blythe and Rosemary and Susan will be so busy with the party, and Jem has his duties as Best Man. Nan doesn't need me. She has Di for her maid of honor and Sylvia and Persis to stand with her. She will be very well attended, I assure you."

Lewis blinked and scribbled, "Will you be wearing sackcloth to the ceremony, St. Una?"

Una laughed quietly. "I have a very pretty dress for the occasion, thank you."

"Tell me about it."

The brown eyes were lively and intelligent and more than a little hopeful. Una sat a little forward in her seat and made an effort to put in as much detail as she could. "It's lavender muslin with a square lace yoke and little fluttery sleeves and a drop-waist. I have a string of artificial pearls and new silver slippers and . . ."

A quarter hour later, after they had exhausted the topics of dress and refreshments, Una was describing the setup at Ingleside — the huge canvas canopy and the dance floor and the eight-piece band hired from Charlottetown — when Mrs. Palmer came in with a pile of clean sheets.

"Go away," Lewis scrawled on his slate.

"I would, darling," Mrs. Palmer clucked. "But I will not be responsible for Miss Meredith missing her brother's wedding."

"I'm sorry I can't stay," Una said, reaching for Lewis's hand. "But I'll make it up to you next week. A proper visit, and I'll describe everything down to the last petal."

Lewis drew his hand away to steady his slate. "Take notes," he wrote.

"Perhaps I will," she smiled, rising from her seat.

Una took Lewis's slate and pencil and laid them on the bedside table. He closed his eyes, and she flinched, knowing how much he hated this part. Back in the beginning, Una had tried to help with all his care — bedpans and feeding and washing as well — but she had arrived one Saturday to find that Lewis had written her a long, emphatic letter insisting that she leave that sort of work to his mother and the trained nurse. Una had acquiesced, agreeing to visit as a friend, not a caregiver. But the trained nurse only came during the week, and his mother couldn't change the sheets without help. In the interests of preventing bedsores, Lewis had agreed — reluctantly — to let Una assist in this, but he always closed his eyes and went away during.

Una and Mrs. Palmer worked silently and quickly, steady hands stripping the blankets, rolling Lewis this way and that to pass the new sheets under him, tucking him up safe at the end. Only when Mrs. Palmer had left with the laundry and Una had lain his slate and pencil back at his side did Lewis rejoin her, scribbling across the chalk-dusted surface: "Try to have a good time, won't you?"

"I will," she said, and bent to kiss his forehead.

* * *

The previous afternoon had found Carl sprawled in the shade at the edge of a meadow drifted over with ox-eye daisies. Jem had found the place; now that he was home for keeps, he knew every strawberry patch and jay's nest within rambling distance of Ingleside. How he kept abreast of such ripenings and hatchings alongside his obligations to the human inhabitants of the Glen was something of a mystery. Perhaps it was because he preferred to leave his father's Cadillac in the garage and walk his rounds; perhaps it was because he did not sleep.

Jerry had initially asked Carl to be his Best Man, but Carl had declined. As much as Carl loved Jerry, he knew that the place beside his brother wasn't his.

"Is it alright to have a married best man?" Jerry had asked when Carl had urged him to have Jem instead.

"He's your best friend," Carl answered, masking a flicker of exasperation with a smile. "Let anyone try to tell you that you can't have him."

No one had, which is why it was Jem organizing this pre-wedding expedition. He had called at the manse after tea with an armful of empty buckets for Jerry and his brothers. There was one for Shirley as well, though he was not a member of the wedding party. Jem had pressed him into service anyway, dragging him from the Ingleside kitchen over Shirley's protests that Susan needed his help with the icing and Susan's equally convicted declarations that she did not.

"Got your pocketknives?" Jem asked as he distributed buckets to the Merediths. "Sorry, Shirley, I should have asked you before we left home. Do you have an extra, Jerry?"

Shirley merely held up the corkscrew knife he always carried.

"That'll do!" Jem beamed.

They had tramped over fields and wood lots bursting with violets and mayflowers. The breeze was fresh and crisp as line-dried sheets, and warm enough that they soon carried their jackets. Jem and Jerry talked over plans for tomorrow while Carl named the plants and insects for Bruce's sake, keenly aware of Shirley's unfaltering step behind him. Somewhere beyond the MacCallum farm in the Upper Glen, they had passed through a scrim of underbrush and emerged in this sun-warmed meadow with its daisies in their thousands, their bobbing heads weighed down here and there with bees, smelling faintly of the honey they would become.

"Just the tops," Jem said. "No need for stems." With a flick of his knife, Jem decapitated an ox-eye and dropped it into his pail.

"Why do we need so many flowers?" Bruce asked as they fell to work.

"They're for the tunnel," Carl explained. "After the ceremony, the guests will line the way from the manse to Ingleside for the reception and throw flowers for Jerry and Nan."

Shirley raised a brow in skepticism. "They're going to run a gauntlet?

"A very gentle one," Carl chuckled.

"Is it alright that we're taking so many?" Shirley asked, moving to a fresh patch of daisies as the party fanned out. "The flowers don't need to . . . I don't know . . . germinate?"

Carl followed, shaking his head and suppressing a grin at these botanical musings. "They're an invasive species. _Leucanthemum vulgar_. Impossible to eradicate, since the rhizomes regenerate. We're not even hurting the plants we're taking."

"So you're saying that we're going to shower the newlyweds with weeds?" Shirley smirked.

"Very pretty weeds," Carl said, flicking a daisy head at Shirley and snorting when it fell inside his collar. "Can I help you get that?"

"Best not," Shirley said, low enough that the others could not hear his tone. Instead, he unbuttoned his own shirt, leaving it open over his undershirt even after the errant flower had been scooped into his pail. After all, it was quite a warm day.

Later, their buckets full and their fingers green-stained and fragrant, they rested in the shade of a maple at the edge of the field. Carl shared his canteen with Bruce and offered it around, but Jem waved it away. He produced a copper flask from some hidden pocket, passing it to Jerry with mock ceremony.

Jerry took a timid sip and spluttered. "Rum? Ugh. That takes me back."

He offered the flask to Carl, but Shirley intercepted it and sniffed. "Is it even rum?" he asked. "It smells bloody awful."

Jem shrugged. "Beggars can't be choosers. Got it from one of the fishermen who runs up to Newfoundland every now and then. There's better money in rum than fish these days, even if it is raw stuff."

With disdainful delicacy, Shirley screwed the flask cap back into place. Reaching for his jacket, he emerged with his own flask, silver and unembellished but for its sleekly tapered lines. It sloshed when he tossed it to Jem.

One cautious sip and Jem's eyebrows disappeared into his curls. "What the devil is this?"

"You never had whisky before?"

"I never had _this_ whisky before. Where on earth did you get it?"

Carl had a fairly good idea where Shirley had gotten it, but it hardly mattered. Wilkie was gone, graduated, off to see the world. He had come by the boarding house once before he left Kingsport, to bid a cheeky goodbye and share his plans: New York first, then Paris on his way to Berlin.

"Berlin?" Carl had wrinkled his nose.

"They're making the new world over there," Wilkie had grinned, winking at Shirley as he reclined with his boots resting on top of the tobacco-stripe quilt. "Clubs, bars, fabulous costume balls where you can wear whatever you like, drink whatever you like, dance with whomever you like . . . you'd love it, Meredith."

"I think I've had rather enough of Germans, thanks," Carl grimaced.

"Well I haven't," Wilkie chortled. "Not these Germans, anyway. Give me a year or two and I'll report back."

If there had been another farewell, Carl was not particularly keen to hear the details. "More than half" was enough, and he wasn't anyone's jailer either.

In the hazy maple-shade, Jem passed the flask to Jerry, who seemed much more satisfied with this offering. It went all hands round the circle until it came to Bruce.

"Oh, go on," Jem prodded, winking at Bruce. "If you're old enough to be a groomsman, you're old enough to have a drink."

Bruce darted a glance from Jerry to Carl, but neither made any protest. He touched the flask to his mouth and took a sip so small he had to lick it from his lips rather than swallowing. Jem clapped him on the back and plucked the whisky from his hands.

"Are daisies alright, do you think?" Jerry asked, dipping a hand in one of the pails and letting the blossoms run through his fingers. "Shouldn't we have rose petals?"

"Sure," Jem said reasonably, "if you want to wait another month."

Jerry whipped a daisy head at him, then went in for a playful shove, splashing liquor from the top of the flask.

"Hey now!" Jem exclaimed, licking the drops from his hand. "This is not for wasting!"

"I have a whole bottle at the house," Shirley said lazily. "It's yours."

"You can't just give this stuff away," Jem protested.

Shirley lay back in the grass, his voice languid with dreamy unconcern. "Sure I can. I don't need it."

* * *

There was not enough room inside the manse for all of Jerry and Nan's guests to see them married. Therefore, they were married on the veranda, with friends and family crowded into the little yard, filling all the space down to the old Methodist graveyard. Carl thought that the gathered guests looked like a flock of tropical birds, arrayed in feathers and silk, their Easter finery repurposed to this next most joyous occasion. He was particularly glad to see Una looking sweet and shining-eyed in lavender, and hoped she wouldn't spend the whole wedding lodged between Rosemary and Susan.

Carl himself was dressed in a dove gray waistcoat and black tails, the same as Bruce and Jem. A starched white collar and smart blue tie completed the ensemble, which was as close to formal dress as an afternoon wedding at the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian manse could bear. According to Di, the waistcoat-tie combination had been the subject of a week's planning that had involved lists, swatches, and some barely-concealed tears. They needn't have bothered; Carl would have worn anything short of khaki if it meant seeing Jerry happy.

He was, too. Radiant, even. After everything, Jerry Meredith stood up before God and the Glen, with his best friend at his side and his tear-choked father officiating, and promised to love and keep Nan Blythe through whatever else the world could throw at them.

If Jerry was radiant, Nan was incandescent. The gossamer threads of her frothy veil caught the afternoon sun so that she seemed to be wreathed in light. She carried a bouquet of silvery pink peonies, their tight green buds burst into outrageous profusion.* But even the lush exuberance of the peonies paled beside Nan's dress, an intricate confection of tiered bobbin lace, every frond and flower a captured hour of her interminable waiting, finally come now to its end.

Carl couldn't help grinning through the ceremony, though he faltered a bit when they got to the vows. Somewhere around _in sickness and in health_ , he darted a glance at Shirley, standing with the Ingleside contingent beside the veranda steps. He shouldn't have, not while he was on display in front of everyone like this, with nowhere to hide from that unveiled gaze. With an effort, Carl picked an arbitrary blossom in Nan's flower crown and fixed all his attention on it, hoping that the hot blood rising in his cheeks and up from his collar would not overflow and go splashing over every dove-gray, bride-white, petal-pale flounce and ribbon on the veranda. _Can't we laugh over them together?_ he had written once. Perhaps a bit later, but not right now.

Fortunately, most of the wedding guests were deep in their own reveries. Throughout the crowd, married couples were finding one another in small ways — Dr. Blythe taking Mrs. Blythe's hand in his, Emile Gagnon flashing a toothy smile at Marie, Rilla Ford stopping in the gentle swaying that kept little Gil quiet on her hip to lean back against Ken. It did not matter whether they had been married three years or thirty, all were turning their own vows over in their hearts, refreshing them as they welcomed a new family to the world. When John Meredith asked it of them, the guests promised to encourage and support Jerry and Nan in their marriage, to lift them up and witness their love, not just this day, but every day. No, it wasn't something to laugh over after all.

But the solemn moment passed. Jerry and Nan Meredith were man and wife, kissing one another in front of all the world, their marriage announced in the whooping applause of the crowd. Carl cheered along with the rest, grinning again when Jerry went in for a second kiss against all etiquette.

The guests, having been coached in their duties, went off to form ranks while Jerry and Nan accepted congratulatory embraces from the wedding party. A heartfelt hug for Jerry, a kiss on the cheek for Nan, a staggered step under the enthusiasm of Jem's clap on the back. Then Carl offered his arm to Sylvia, who squeezed it and gave him a saucy wink. Then they were off, following Jem and Di as they traipsed along behind Jerry and Nan through the tunnel of daisy-tossing well-wishers.

Across the road and down the hill, past the big tamarack tree on the tumble-down, grass-grown dyke of the Bailey garden, and down into Rainbow Valley. Revelers lined the way, strewing the newlyweds' path with flowers. A few, including Jims and Claude, were notably energetic in their pelting, but most sent their blossoms high and soft in a continual fall of snowy blooms. Nan and Jerry went beaming hand-in-hand until they came to the little wooden bridge that arched over the brook near the place where they had first seen one another at the long-ago trout supper that had been the start of so many things. At its apex, in full view of everyone before and behind, Jerry seized his wife around the waist and kissed her long and well. The delight of the multitude rang up and down the Valley, the fairy echoes of their joy chasing the merry company up the hill to Ingleside.

* * *

Sometime between the soup and the main course, Shirley Blythe burst out of the huge white tent that dominated the Ingleside lawn. He had made an effort, he really had. But after cocktails with Irene Howard and Olive Kirk at either elbow, canapés in the loquacious-but-still-preferable company of Mary Douglas, and a quarter hour at a table whose seating chart could only have been devised by Susan at her wiliest, Shirley had had more than enough.

Of course he hadn't expected to be seated with Carl and the rest of the wedding party at the head table. But he had hoped that he might be allowed to eat his meal in peace with Una. Or Rilla at the very least. He would have welcomed a full-length discourse on the weather in Toronto or all little Gilbert Ford's most precocious doings if it had meant he could have sat in genial, nodding silence and let others do the talking. But Betty Mead had been keen to know all about Redmond and Marjorie Drew had developed an unlikely passion for aviation and round about the hundredth question, Shirley excused himself abruptly, not caring if they thought him rude.

It was much cooler outside the tent, the golden afternoon tapering off toward a periwinkle evening. Shirley stepped off the flagstone path as several hired waiters carried entrees from the house to the tables in the tent. Susan had made major concessions to Nan's plans, giving up control over the dinner itself, though she had still insisted on making the cake with no help from anyone but Shirley. By their combined efforts, Nan, Mother, and Rosemary had convinced Susan that she was to be a wedding guest, not a caterer, extracting a dubious promise that she would leave the kitchen to the hired staff. Perhaps Shirley should go up to the kitchen on her behalf and check that everything was in order.

When he reached the veranda, Shirley nearly tripped over a small person with toffee-colored curls and a besmeared sailor suit, running in the opposite direction.

"Whoa there, Sam," Shirley said, crouching to address his nephew. "Out here all alone?"

"Not alone," said Una, coming around the corner of the house, her arms full of the wee, red-fuzzed bundle already known to the family as Wally. "Just a bit more nimble than I am at the moment."

Shirley lifted Sam to his hip, brushing dirt and grass from his tunic. "I see you've been giving your Auntie Una some trouble," he said.

Solemn hazel eyes blinked back at him. "Sam fast."

"Fast, eh?" Shirley asked, letting half a smile show. "How about Sam _fly_?"

Flipping the toddler onto his belly and extending his arms, Shirley swung him in a wide arc that made Sam squeal with delight. Down the veranda steps and onto the lawn, Shirley spun the child around and around, letting him soar and dip. Una followed along in their wake, rocking Wally and smiling at Sam's glee.

"More! More!" Sam shrieked when the ride slowed.

Instead of continuing, Shirley set him down on the grass and grasped him firmly under the arms. "Alright, Sam. Are you ready to go high?"

"High!"

"Get ready. You're gonna fly."

"Fly!"

"Ready . . . set . . . _fly_!"

On the last syllable, Shirley hoisted Sam into the air, rocketing him up to the extremity of his outstretched arms and letting go for one breathless second of actual flight. Sam soared free, silhouetted against the purpling sky, then dropped back into Shirley's waiting hands.

"More! More!"

Shirley tossed his giddy nephew up and down until his shoulders began to burn with the effort. He set Sam down on the grass and was about to flop down beside him when he felt a small tug on the hem of his dinner jacket. Surprised, Shirley looked down to find another child, golden-haired and gray-eyed, looking up at him with determination.

"Gil up! Gil fly!"

Here was a bold little cuss. Sam Blythe had known his Uncle Shirley since he was hours old and they had spent the last week at Ingleside getting reacquainted. Shirley was a virtual stranger to Gil Ford, who had arrived in Glen St. Mary for the first time two days ago and was staying with his parents and paternal grandparents at the old House of Dreams. Oh, they had come up to Ingleside to visit, but Shirley had had his hands full running Susan's errands and hadn't spared a thought for Rilla and Ken's son. This lack of familiarity did not seem to deter the little princeling, who pouted his small pink lips and made the same demand again.

"Gil up! Gil fly!"

Shirley lifted the boy into his arms just as other voices filtered down from the tent.

"Gil! Gil! Where are you?"

"Come to Mummy, Gil!"

"Gilbert!"

Shirley frowned at his nephew, who mirrored the expression back in miniature. "Snuck away, did you?" Shirley asked.

The shouted entreaties had taken on an edge of panic, so Shirley wasted no more time.

"I have him! Rilla! Mother! I have Gil here!"

Una joined in, waving to the search party until Rilla came sprinting across the lawn, her green silk gown plastered to her legs as she ran. Ken followed in her wake, with assorted grandparents bringing up the rear. Shirley held Gil out to Rilla, who clutched him to her chest, panting.

"Gil! Sweetheart! I only looked away for a second," she insisted, though no one had asked for an explanation. "One moment he was in the chair beside me and the next . . ."

"It's alright, Rilla," Anne soothed, putting a consoling arm around her daughter's shoulders. "Children wander. When Shirley was about this age, he toddled away from Susan and when they found him he was in a stable standing right under one of the horses!"**

Shirley exchanged a look of fellow-feeling with young Gilbert, who showed no sign of being moved by this maternal display. Instead, he fixed his gray gaze on his uncle, who could practically hear him thinking _FLY._

Rilla hugged her son close, but Ken peeled him out of her arms and spoke to him sternly. "Gilbert Ford, it is very naughty to run away. You made your mother worry. Never run away again."

Gil merely pouted at this admonition, stubbornly silent, downy brows drawn together mutinously. Ken seemed on the point of demanding some sort of reply, but Shirley intervened.

"Why don't you leave him here with us? Una and I can watch him and he can play with Sam while you enjoy the party."

Ken gave Shirley an appraising look, then turned to his son.

"Do you want to stay here with your Uncle Shirley?"

"Yeth."

"And will you be a good boy and listen to him?"

"Yeth."

"Good. No more shenanigans," Ken warned, passing Gil into Shirley's waiting arms.

"Don't let him muss his clothes," Rilla warned as Ken took her arm to lead her back up to the tent.

"No promises," Shirley said mildly.

When parents and grandparents had gone back to their dinner, Shirley turned to the glowering cherub sitting in the crook of his elbow.

"Alright, Ace. Are you ready?"

"Gil up! Gil _fly_!"

* * *

Later, when the star-speckled sky had deepened to lush indigo, Faith and Jem and Rilla had come to collect their boys and carry them protesting upstairs to bed. Shirley escorted Una back to the tent just in time to witness the cutting of Susan's magnificent cake, celebrated with due admiration from the gathered crowd. Then the band struck up a waltz and Jerry led Nan out onto the dance floor to general applause, with only old Sophia Crawford daring to mutter about the state of a world in which ministers' children were allowed to dance in public.

Una took her leave apologetically, murmuring some urgent and unlikely business requiring Rosemary's attention. Unconcerned, Shirley snagged himself a piece of cake, which hadn't turned out half bad if he did say so himself. Rather than braving the hydra menacing his own assigned seat, he commandeered a chair at the table recently vacated by various Fords and Blythes and attempted to make the cake last as long as possible, lest he be expected to dance.

Other couples had joined the newlyweds now. Shirley's parents were all smiles and admirable posture, laughing as they exchanged partners with Mr. and Mrs. Ford. The wedding party had entered the lists as well, Bruce Meredith red-faced with the effort of avoiding Persis Ford's silver-slippered toes.

Shirley quite forgot his cake as Carl led Sylvia to a starting position. He didn't mean to stare, but found that he could not help himself, not with Carl gliding easily across the floor, poised and debonair as no son of a minister had any right to be. When had he ever learned to waltz?

"Shall I tell Nan that the groomsmen's suits were a good choice?"

Shirley jumped at the whisper in his ear, making Di grin.

"Come dance with me," she said. "The Best Man's still up at the house wrestling ankle-biters and if I leave you unattached for too long, you're liable to be picked off by the pack."

Shirley could not remember the last time he had danced a waltz either. Perhaps at the lighthouse the night the war began? No, he had danced at his Queen's convocation ball; there must have been waltzes then. Still, a different world. Stepping out into the swirl of skirts and suits with Di, Shirley found that his body remembered the steps well enough, even if he had to remind himself that it was alright to lead.

Di was all smiles above the dreamy blue chiffon of her bridesmaid's gown. The cornflower shade was distinctive enough to be immediately recognizable among the dancers, which made it easy to keep track of all three bridesmaids and their partners.

"He's not going anywhere, you know," Di said kindly.

"What?" With an effort, Shirley directed his attention to his sister. "Oh. 'Course not. It's just . . . it's his first time out dancing since . . . you know . . ."

"He enjoys it?"

"He did."

Di patted his shoulder reassuringly. "You'll have more chances."

Would they? With Wilkie graduated and off on his adventures, was there anyone among them who could take his place? The money had only been part of it; even if he had a million dollars, Shirley couldn't have done half of what Wilkie had done for his _philoi_. All out of unapologetic selfishness, Shirley knew, but that didn't change matters much.

"What about you?" Shirley redirected. "I suppose you'll be getting up to all sorts of mischief with Nan and Jerry out of your hair at last."

Di grinned to the limit. "Just more of the usual."

"Has Nan moved all her things to Charlottetown already?"

"Yes, she shipped the last trunk just before we came home."

Shirley had seen a snap of this newest house of dreams, a cheerful, gabled cottage near King's Square, just around the corner from the Provincial Court. The bridesmaids had spent much of the previous day on an excursion to make sure that the pantry was stocked, the kindling boxes filled, the bed made . . .

"They're driving there tonight?" Shirley asked.

"Yes, Dad's letting them take the car so they don't have to bother with the train."

"Can Jerry drive?"

"Jem's been teaching him."

"Can _Jem_ drive?"

Di's laugh joined the jolly cacophony of the party. "I'm sure they've worked it out between them."

Shirley checked his wristwatch. "They ought to get going soon if they mean to make an evening of it."

"It isn't as far away as it once was," Di said. "In the car, Charlottetown's only an hour from the Glen."

"In a plane, Kingsport's only an hour from the Glen."

"Well then perhaps you should pop up to Ingleside more often."

Shirley tightened his hand on Di's waist, guiding her out of the path of Norman Douglas, who was leading Ellen in enthusiastic but imprecise steps without any apparent awareness that other people were dancing in their vicinity.

"No thanks," he said. "A week at Christmas and again in the summer is more than enough for me."

"Are you staying long this time?"

"No. Carl's got to work on the research for his thesis. Some kind of birds. We go back on Tuesday."

Di firmed her own grip, squeezing Shirley's hand in her own. "We should keep Sunday dinner going, just the four of us."

"You don't need to cook for us, Di. Enjoy Aster House. It's all yours now."

"You're always welcome," she pressed. "No need to hide yourselves away for the year."

Shirley looked again at Carl, twirling Sylvia with ease. A year. He'd barricade them in forever if he could, portcullis down and drawbridge up.

The band put a final flourish on the tune. All around, dancers were bowing to their partners, negotiating new pairs for the upcoming foxtrot, returning to their tables for drinks. At the center of the floor, Jerry was whispering something in Nan's ear, and by the look of things, it wasn't seating arrangements.

"I didn't know you could waltz!" A chipper voice at Shirley's elbow, closer than he'd been all day, flushed from dancing, a teasing twinkle in his eye. Sylvia hovered at Carl's side, her expression of merry mischief matching his, though Shirley saw her only peripherally.

Carl made a little bow to Di. Looking up at Shirley, he half-swallowed a grin and asked, "May I borrow your charming partner?"

Sylvia could not stifle her hilarity and soon she and Di were a merged cloud of blue chiffon giggles. Carl did not break, blinking innocently at Shirley until there was no use fighting it anymore and Shirley gave him the smile he wanted.

Carl bent and pressed a kiss to the apple of Sylvia's cheek before handing her off to Shirley. Di took Carl's arm and followed him out as the music swelled again, stepping into the foxtrot with confidence.

"I think I have something that belongs to you," Sylvia said before she and Shirley joined them. Stretching up to the limit of her tiptoes, she planted the kiss on his cheek and rocked back with a look of satisfaction.

Across the dance floor, Carl was leading Di with flair. They were well-matched, being of similar height and slim build, and Shirley wasn't the only one watching them. But he was the only one who got a look back, a bright bolt of blue so fleeting it might have been an accident, but wasn't.

"Careful or they might make a match of it," Sylvia smirked, echoing a dozen similar observations passing among the onlookers by whisper and wink. "Everyone knows you Blythes can't resist a Meredith."

"We're awfully predictable," Shirley agreed.

That got a silvery laugh, clear and sparkling enough to cut through the low murmurations of the be-spangled, be-feathered, kaleidoscope crowd.

"Oh, yes," Sylvia concurred. "Nothing but dull moments with you lot around."

There were, in fact, a few dull moments as the evening wore on. Shirley couldn't dance with Di and Sylvia forever, though he did try to pad out his dance card by waiting on his mother and Mrs. Ford and eventually Faith and Rilla when they rejoined the party. He even took a turn around the floor with the bride, who was not so much dancing as floating. Una had vanished and Susan flatly refused to dance, but Shirley obliged her by making perfunctory efforts toward Irene and Betty.

Then it was time to farewell the newlyweds with a more raucous round of whistles and hoots. Shirley hung back, letting the other well-wishers surge past him until stood alone in the shadow of a candling horse chestnut, watching. Nan managed to get into the Cadillac without snagging her lace; Jerry guided the car down the drive, slowly but successfully.

"Off to their happily ever after at last," Carl said, appearing at Shirley's side with a deniable brush of sleeve against sleeve.

"Do you really think there is such a thing?"

"I know it."

Shirley looked askance, mouth twisted in a sardonic smirk. "After everything, you believe in fairy tales?"

Carl pressed a hand to his own breast pocket. "Someone once told me that happiness is like an enchanted palace guarded by dragons and monsters. Sounds like a fairy tale to me."

Shirley snorted softly, far back in his throat. Now was probably not the best time to recount Dumas's plot, with its labyrinthine intrigues and the myriad unintended consequences of violence, no matter how righteous.

"Too many monsters," he said instead. "You think you've got them all, but there are always more."

"Maybe so," Carl said fairly. "But you don't have to defeat them all. Just cut a path to the side door. I'll hold it open for you."

The laugh that bubbled up through Shirley's chest escaped through his eyes first, then in soft, rumbling shudders through the rest of his body. Beside him, Carl was chuckling, not, he suspected, at the joke, but in delight at its success. Yes, perhaps they could laugh over it together after all.

* * *

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 1. The peonies were ploughed under to make room for a potato patch later in _RoI_ , but I thought Susan should have "the pride of her heart" back.

** _Anne of Ingleside_ , chapter 3


	16. Your Perfect Job

Content warning: discussion of policing/imprisonment of gay characters

* * *

 **Your Perfect Job**

* * *

January/March, 1923

* * *

In January, an envelope arrived at the boarding house. There was no return address, no postmark, no stamp, only Shirley's name block-printed on the front in a hand neither of them could recognize, no matter how they tried. Inside, a single clipping from a New York newspaper: "BANKER'S SON PLEADS GUILTY TO INDECENCY CHARGE; THREE YEARS HARD LABOR."

" _Christ_ ," Carl had whispered, retrieving the scrap of paper from the table where Shirley had dropped it as if scalded. There was a photo and everything.

They had talked it over but never could decide whether the clipping was a threat or a gesture of solidarity. It wasn't from Anthony, judging by the wounded sound he made when Carl showed it to him. Di and Sylvia were at a loss as well, no matter how many times they debated the matter over the Aster House dining table, voices low enough that they did not carry beyond the circle of lamplight. There was no way to know for sure.

* * *

A Saturday night in March found Carl and Shirley at home: Carl hunched over a sheaf of notes at the desk, Shirley reclining across the beds, perusing a copy of _Aerial Age Weekly_.* There were no more dances and few outings of any other kind, except to Aster House on Sundays. They rarely even walked home together from Redmond, just in case someone was watching.

Carl shoved back from his desk with a sigh. His thesis was due mid-April and he was still puzzling over the demographics of roseate tern colonies. Was it destruction of nesting sites that was hurting the population? Or was the decline mainly due to plume hunting? It might take decades of data to get a clear answer, but he had nowhere near that much time.

Carl risked a look over at Shirley, absorbed in his article, long legs splayed carelessly over the tobacco stripe quilt. There was never going to be a good time to say what he needed to say. But he had thought it over all week and knew what must be done, even if he dreaded it.

Rising from his chair, Carl went and perched hesitantly on the edge of Shirley's bed, his whole posture a question.

Shirley lowered his magazine and raised a brow. Putting off the moment, Carl directed his attention to the article Shirley had been reading, now visible: "Note on the Interpretation of Wind Tunnel Experimental Data with Reference to the Longitudinal Damping Characteristics of an Airplane."* The spread pages were dense with mathematical equations, all of them involving various parentheses and logarithmic functions expressed in a bewildering alphabet of symbols and subscripts.

"You can understand that?" Carl asked, nodding at the page.

"A bit."

"You'd be top of the class if you put more time into studying."

Shirley shrugged. "Not the best use of my time."

Carl tried to smile, but he was stalling and knew it. What was more, Shirley knew it, there being no doubt about the expression that said Carl _had come to tell him something he was a little afraid to tell him_.**

"Just spit it out," Shirley urged. "You'll feel better."

"It's only . . ." Carl faltered, "only . . . I think I got a job."

"A job?"

"For after graduation," Carl said.

Shirley squinted at him. "And this is . . . bad?"

"No, not bad. At least it could be good. The job, that is." The conversation thus breached, Carl's words gushed out in a torrent. "It's an excellent job, actually. Better than I could have hoped for. Professor Michelson, you know he's been advising my work, and he introduced me to a friend of his from the Department of Marine and Fisheries. That was my meeting on Monday — I went to his office and we had tea and talked about migratory birds and the threats to their colonies, what with habitat destruction and hunting and invasive species, and the long and short of it is that the Department is starting up some wildlife research projects and, well, they heard about my thesis work with the roseate terns. And . . . they want me."

"A job at Marine and Fisheries?" Shirley asked, attempting to distill the salient information from this flood.

"Yes. I'd mostly work on my own, but I'd be an agent of the Department."

"An agent?" Shirley started. He sat up, no longer at his ease. "You want to be a cop?"

"No! Nothing like that!" Carl exclaimed, raising a placating hand. "They have other people monitoring the catch. I wouldn't be enforcing regulations. I'd just be looking at habitats — going out to little islands to count nesting birds, observing marine mammals, writing reports, that sort of thing."

"They're going to pay you to watch birds?"

"Well, there's a bit more to it than that," Carl said with a touch of asperity.

"Where?"

"It's . . . uhh . . ." No use for it. Carl swallowed his trepidation and plunged ahead. "In the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The Magdalens. And the west coast of Cape Breton."

Shirley stiffened. "That's . . . home."

"I know."

Shirley's face cleared as realization dawned and the relevant pieces clicked into place. "You want to move home," he said, astonished. "To Glen St. Mary."

Carl shrugged in apology. "It's a good job."

"At home."

"Forget it. I know you don't want to go back."

Shirley did not reply right away. Instead, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat beside Carl on his sighted side. "Are you serious?"

"It's a good job," Carl repeated, knowing how feeble that sounded.

"I'm sure it is. But . . . there's no place for us. Not there."

Carl looked up through dark lashes, blue eye imploring. "You don't think we could make one?"

Shirley's jaw was set, his lips compressed. But when he spoke, his voice was as calm as ever. "There are places we could go," he said. "Where we could live together. Toronto, maybe, or New York . . ."

"Would things really be better there?"

If he hadn't known Shirley's face so well, Carl might have missed the infinitesimal quiver. But he had always been an observer of small things, and he knew Shirley's face like he knew the smell of the sea-wind off the Gulf and the grit of red Island earth between his toes. With that small change of expression, Carl understood what it meant to Shirley to know that the irrepressible Wilkie Marshall was rotting in a fetid cell somewhere, enduring things Carl did not dare to imagine too specifically. If he was still alive at all.

"What would we do in a big city anyway?" Carl asked miserably. "A place with no trees and no ocean? No woods or streams? Could you really live like that?"

"With you, I could."

Carl wanted to mirror the words back. He wanted to say, _I would live in a concrete box with you; I would live in a hole in the ground with with you; I would spend eternity in the blazing, blasted, barren desert of the the Seventh Circle with you._

But Carl Meredith had lived in concrete boxes and holes in the ground. Sometimes, unexpectedly, he found himself there again, the breath squeezed from him as if he were pinned beneath the merciless descent of a cider press. And as for the Seventh Circle — the souls of violence condemned to chase one another aimlessly across the burning sands under a sky alive with flakes of fire — well, Carl had seen all that with his own eyes and lost one in the looking. In his secret heart, he believed that he might see it again one day. But it wouldn't do to say so to Shirley, who had little patience for dangers that couldn't be fought.

"I . . . don't think I could."

"No, I guess not," Shirley muttered. He was silent a long time and Carl began to feel fidgety, but held himself in check. There was no need to voice all the arguments. Shirley would skip all unnecessary recitation and come out with the essential point at the end.

He did. "You want to go back to Glen St. Mary."

"Yes," Carl admitted dismally.

"You're really serious?"

Carl bit the inside of his cheek, a collapsing effort to keep tears in check. "You know how it is with me," he said, barely audible. "Even in Kingsport. I . . . don't think I could live in a city. No matter how much I might want to."

Shirley frowned. "Does it have to be the Glen?"

"No. But . . . I miss them. Una. Bruce. Everybody. Don't you?"

A long pause, eloquent in itself, but not infinite. "I only came back for you."

He almost hadn't. He had almost stayed in Paris to make a new life in a place where English laws and their descendants did not apply, where the city offered opportunity and choice and a different sort of freedom. He had meant to release Carl as well.

Carl flicked a bit of sheet back and forth between his fingers, studying it intently. "I . . . it's not . . . I mean . . . you don't have to come with me. If you don't want to."

The brown gaze sharpened at that. "Don't be stupid."

"I mean it," Carl said, and did. "There's a whole world out there. It's not for me. But you'd do well. You have . . . options. You don't have to follow me back to Glen St. Mary for old times' sake."

However sincere he might have been, Carl found that he could not quite bear to look Shirley in the eye. He risked a single, brief glance, but met a look of such unveiled fervor that he snapped back to the sheet in his fingers, feeling scorched.

Shirley did not speak at once, but reached into Carl's field of vision and stilled his fingers with the enveloping warmth of both his hands. He held them steady until Carl looked up of his own volition, swallowing against the arid crackle of a throat gone painfully parched.

"There's no option," Shirley said. "Not for me."

Carl had seen this exact expression only twice before. The first time had been their very first night in Charlottetown, after supper had been eaten and Mrs. MacDougal had sent them off to their room to get a wholesome night's sleep before the first day of the fall term at Queen's. Carl had changed into his nightshirt and climbed into bed. Before he could turn out the light, Shirley had crossed the room and sat stiffly on the edge of the frame. He had not looked at Carl, but had placed his hand lightly between them on the quilt. For the space of a few heartbeats, Carl knew that he could ignore the gesture and it would be withdrawn and never repeated nor mentioned. Or . . .

Or, he could stretch out his own hand, press his pale palm to the tanned fingers that had caressed his face that sweltering day at the quiet, reed-lined pool.

There was no option. Not for him. When he had covered Shirley's hand with his own, he had been greeted by this same expression: simultaneously fierce and fragile, expectant and exposed, a question and its answer all in one.

The second time had been in a shabby hotel room in Paris, when the splendid young RFC officer had fallen away with the uniform and revealed Shirley Blythe, all grown up and not completely certain that his soldier boy remembered him.

Carl did what he had done twice before. He leaned forward and kissed Shirley, tenderly at first, but with ardor enough to say _you are neither mistaken nor forgotten_. And as before, there was a tiny ripple of relief that would have been imperceptible to anyone who did not have palms pressed to Shirley's pulse.

Shirley wrapped an arm around Carl's waist and drew him down, down, down, as an anchor into unseen depths. No rain nor wind nor shifting tide could overpower the implacable gravity of that plummeting weight, nor divert its course. Sightless, Carl was immersed in other sensations: subtle stubble under his fingers, the rushing hiss of blood singing through his veins, and that inexplicable scent, reminiscent of warm bread, that must have been baked into Shirley's very skin during his formative years in the Ingleside kitchen.

When he surfaced for breath, Carl shook his head. "Forget it. It's not important."

Shirley did not release him. "Of course it's important."

"No. There's nothing for us in the Glen. Nothing worth anything."

"Except trees," Shirley said evenly. "And the ocean. And our families. And your job. Your perfect job."

"What job?"

"Your perfect job," he repeated. "The one where you're going to play Noah and save all the animals from man's sinful transgressions."

Carl made a vague attempt to smile, but fell somewhat short of success. "I can't ask it of you. What would you do in the Glen?"

Shirley shrugged. "Fly. My Curtiss is still out there in Abel Cooper's old barn. I could build a new plane, too. And a hangar. Give lessons. Scare some migratory birds."

Carl began to let himself imagine it.

"But we couldn't live together," Shirley said, his hand firm at Carl's waist. There was no use softening the truth.

"No, I guess not."

There was a moment of silence. It was the moment that other people filled with vows and plans and castles in Spain. _It's the birthday of our happiness.***_

It was not possible.

"Would you go back to the manse?" Shirley asked instead.

"No," Carl shifted his weight. "Bruce is going to Queen's next year. And I get the sense that Una wants to be closer to her church in Lowbridge. I think maybe she and I could get a house together. Somewhere quiet. Not a lot of neighbors."

Shirley considered. "That might work."

"Would you go to Ingleside? Susan would love to have you back."

Shirley rubbed a hand over his face. "No. God, Susan. What am I going to tell her? But not Ingleside. No. I guess maybe . . . I dunno. I'll need a hangar and some flat land near the water for an airfield. I could build an apartment in the hangar, I guess."

"But you don't want to?"

"Of course I don't. I want to stay right here forever."

Carl laid his head on Shirley's shoulder. "If you really want to go to New York, I'll go with you," he said. "Or Paris. Berlin. Wherever."

It was impossible to say whether he meant it. Carl did not know himself.

"No," Shirley replied. "You want to go back to Glen St. Mary. It's not just the job, is it?"

It wasn't. The job was well and good, but there was more than that. Cities might offer certain sorts of freedom, but even sleepy Kingsport pressed in on him. There was a different sort of freedom at home: freedom to move and breathe, freedom from the jangling edginess that spilled over too easily into suffocation and terror. That wasn't all, either: Una was in Glen, and Bruce and Father and Rosemary and Faith and Sam and baby Wally. And even though it felt a bit silly to count them at all, there were the animals to consider, because no one was paying adequate attention to the invasive species issue and the ecology of the Gulf would be quite ruined if things went on as they were going . . .

"No. Not just the job."

"Well, that's settled, then," Shirley said, and his arm around Carl's waist was brace and ballast, as well as caress.

Carl squeezed back and Shirley dropped a kiss on the top of his golden head.

"I'll have to get a boat," Carl offered. "A motorsailer, probably. Big enough to do some multi-day trips."

"Oh?" Shirley said, something like interest sparking in his eyes. "The sort with a cabin?"

"That's the idea. Sail out to the Magdalens and drop anchor for a day or two. To watch birds, you understand."

"Naturally. Do you think you can handle a boat like that all on your own?"

"Oh, I expect I could learn," Carl smiled. "Motorsailers are made for small crews. Though it's not a bad idea to take on an extra hand aboard every now and then."

"I see. Well, I can't be flying all the time."

Carl searched Shirley's face, alert for regret or insincerity. But Shirley had never been much of a one for either.

"You'll really come with me?" he asked. "To Glen St. Mary?"

"I go where you go. Anywhere. Even home."

* * *

Sweat trickled down Shirley's collar as sparks sprayed from the grinder, illuminating the far corner of the deserted machine shop. Shirley held the metal steady, squinting through the goggles and the fire as the cylinder head took shape in his hands. If he was going to haul the Flying Boat with his new truck, he'd need as much horsepower as he could get.

The truck was a Commencement gift from Mum and Dad. Jem had gotten half the practice and Di had gotten a down payment on Aster House and Nan had gotten the wedding of her dreams. Shirley had only to name his wish.

He hadn't wanted to accept anything, not even congratulations, but Mum and Dad had insisted. In the end, Shirley had seen sense and asked for a Ford Model TT pickup. It was a good truck and would be better if he could customize the engine. Shirley really should have been studying for his final exams, but he would only have access to the Redmond machine shop for a few more days, and this was more important than getting good marks. At least now.

"I don't understand," Professor Lloyd had puffed when he called Shirley to his office. "My associate at Vickers says you turned down the interview request. Explain yourself."

Shirley had swallowed, blinked. "I don't want the job at Vickers, sir."

"Why the devil not? They've just won the contract to supply planes for the Canadian Air Force and they need top-shelf engineers. You're a shoo-in."

It was very difficult to say anything at all. Shirley didn't like Professor Lloyd any more than he had on first acquaintance and the thought of letting him see anything like regret was utterly intolerable.

"I'm not interested in going to Montreal," he said evenly.

Lloyd narrowed his shrewd little eyes and scowled. "The hell you aren't. I don't know what it is with you, Blythe. You have a decent spoonful of brains in your head and you're good in the shop, too, but you pass up the Vickers job when it's handed to you on a silver platter. Why even bother taking the degree if you're not going to use it?"

"I have other plans."

It was true enough. Ever since Carl had told him about the Department of Marine and Fisheries, Shirley had gone into planning mode. He spent Easter break back home in the Glen, asking after properties until he found something that might suit. It was a flat, open piece of ground near Mowbray Narrows with enough room for an airstrip and a hangar, and water access to launch the Curtiss. Shirley had plunked down a good chunk of his savings, reserving the rest for building costs. He'd spent every day since then in the drafting room or the machine shop, drawing plans, working on a hitch for the truck, trying to set everything in order, not least of all his expectations.

It would have been easier if it hadn't been for the Vickers job. Montreal. An apartment together in the city among incurious strangers. Like the boarding house, but clean and secure and _theirs_. Good pay for building new aircraft. Hell, maybe even testing them! And a long, long way from Glen St. Mary.

Shirley blinked as a few errant sparks flew up toward his face. One nipped his cheek, scorching for an instant before dying. He paused in his grinding, using a pair of calipers to measure the cylinder head. It looked alright, but he wouldn't know for sure until he had a chance to work on the engine. You could finesse a hunk of metal down to the thousandth of an inch, but you never actually knew if the whole thing would work until you tried it.

Something clanged in the empty shop and Shirley looked up sharply, surprised to find Carl apologizing to a wrench he had inadvertently knocked to the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Shirley asked. "I thought you had a Statistics final?"

"I did. Hours ago. It's nearly seven."

That was surprising, too. It was usually Carl who got lost in his work, not Shirley. But then, there was so, so much to do and barely any time in which to do it.

"I still have some work to do here," Shirley said, though not without regret. All the hours were ticking away, including the ones behind the deadbolt, and that didn't bear much thinking either, not when there wasn't anything left to be done about it.

"I know," Carl said, smiling. "I brought some sandwiches. Come outside and eat with me and then you can get back to work."

There was something so hopeful in Carl's expression that Shirley couldn't bear to disappoint him. All these past weeks, as the prospect of their return to the Island loomed ever larger, Carl had been hard pressed to keep a lid on his excitement. It bubbled over in the readiness of his smiles and the enthusiasm that had propelled his thesis to the finish line, as well as in certain amorous flights of fancy that Shirley couldn't help but appreciate.

What was Vickers against all that bright joy? Shirley hadn't even told Carl that it was a possibility.

"That sounds great," Shirley said, pulling off his gloves. "Lead the way."

* * *

Notes:

* _Aerial Age Weekly_ , March 1923, pp 137-139. FYI, _Aerial Age Weekly_ is a delightful read (this particular article notwithstanding) and is available for free through . I've spent far too much time reading the ads.

** _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 33: "Carl is —Not— Whipped"

***Anne of the Island, Chapter 21: "Love Takes Up the Glass of Time"


	17. Just Possibly

**Just Possibly**

* * *

September 1923

* * *

Una was elbow-deep in suds, foamy clouds rising in billows to fill the dishpan set in the deep, soapstone basin of the kitchen pump sink. The little gray house on the Lowbridge Road was not despoiled by modern conveniences like running water, which is probably why she and Carl had been able to afford it in the first place.

"We'll bring it into the 20th century soon enough," Carl had promised. "Once the hangar's finished. Faucets, telephone, gas stove, whatever you like."

Despite the enormous sink, the kitchen wasn't nearly as large as Susan's at Ingleside, or even as large as the manse kitchen that Rosemary Meredith had coaxed back into life. Still, Una had plans for it. Yesterday, she and Carl had painted the walls a bright, sunshiney yellow that drew summer inside. When the paint was dry, Una stood on the enamel-top table to hang a framed needlework of her own design over the door. In a wholesome, stem-stitch script embellished with leafy tendrils, it proclaimed Micah 4:4 to all who sat beneath its benediction: _They shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid_.

Today they were unpacking the dishes. Carl sat on the floor, lifting Cecilia Meredith's blue-patterned wedding china out of dusty boxes and handing it up to be washed. Una soaped and rinsed, dancing nimble fingers over the plates, welcoming each piece to the daylight after having been packed away in the manse garret for so very long.

A firm knock at the front door announced the Merediths' first visitor in their new home.

Carl sprang to his feet and bounded into the hall to answer it. Hearing no audible greeting, Una assumed it must be Shirley.

She was proven correct not so very long after, when Shirley followed Carl into the kitchen, brandishing a toolbox.

"Hello, Una." Shirley said, taking in the improvements. "I like the yellow."

"Thank you," Una smiled, drying her hands on a towel. "I think it turned out nicely. It makes it feel as if there's always sunlight here."

"As it happens, Una's very handy with a brush," Carl beamed. "You won't find a single drip on any of the baseboards, I promise you that."

"No thanks to you, I see," Shirley said, pointing to the smears of paint on Carl's overalls. "If I need any help painting out at the hangar I'm sure I'll know which of you to call."

"Have you decided on a color yet?"

"What's wrong with white?"

Una smiled into her suds as they went back and forth, Carl extolling the virtues of every hue in the rainbow, Shirley maintaining that white was clean and practical. Besides, he'd already bought the paint; what was the point in buying more?

"Can I give you a hand with those dishes?" Shirley asked, abandoning questions of interior design to nod toward the rinsed plates in the drain board.

Una shook her head. "There's nowhere to put them away yet."

Carl indicated a wooden hutch propped on its side against one wall. "I could use your help putting that up. I didn't have any of the right tools."

"Well, I'm at your disposal," Shirley replied, patting the toolbox.

Una untied her apron and hung it on a hook behind the door. "While you work on that, I'm going to run over to the Palmers'."

"It's not even Saturday," Carl observed.

Una smiled. "No, but Mrs. Palmer is making a new frontal for the altar at St. Elizabeth's and I'm helping."

"It's three miles to Lowbridge," Carl said. "Take my bicycle."

"That's alright. I like the walk," Una replied, adding, "I'll probably stay to tea. So don't expect me back for a few hours at least."

She knew that Carl understood her by the slight flush that bloomed in his cheeks as he said, "Alright. See you later, then."

Una wasted no time. She stepped lightly into the hall, retrieved her handbag, and closed the front door softly behind her. She took a single step away, then paused and turned back to lock it.

* * *

It was not quite evening when Carl led Shirley out onto the back porch, insisting that he keep his eyes closed as Carl guided him down the steps and toward the garden. Carl felt a bit giddy, an anarchic smile resisting all his attempts to dampen it. This surprise had been several months in the making — even before Convocation — and it was ready now because he finally had a place to set down roots.

"I promise I'll only look at the ground," Shirley protested as he tripped up a small swell in the uneven lawn.

"Just a bit farther."

They stopped at the crest of a knoll just beyond what would be the vegetable garden come spring. Beyond, the ground fell away into a shady dell overgrown with a tangle of ill-kempt trees. Here, there was no such cover. That was perfect: Carl had been advised that full sunlight was necessary for them to flourish.

"Can I open my eyes now?" Shirley asked.

"Yes."

Shirley blinked to clear his vision, then squinted again, contemplating the three spindly saplings planted at broad intervals along the back of the garden.

"They're . . . trees?"

"Very observant."

"Are they . . . apples?"

Carl beamed. "No. They're pears. Everyone's always going on about apples, but I thought pears would be more appropriate."

"Pears?" Shirley repeated, stretching out to rub one leathery leaf between thumb and forefinger.

"Yep. I put them in yesterday. I think they'll do alright here. Full sunlight. They'll take at least three years to bear fruit and I may have to wrap them in the winter to keep them warm and of course there's always the danger of fire-blight and . . ."

Shirley stopped his recitation with a kiss. "They're great."

Carl felt something solid in his chest dissipate. More than once over the past several months, he had seen Shirley swallow some disappointment or another: the necessity of living at Ingleside and the manse all summer, the five miles that separated the hangar from the little gray house, building difficulties that had delayed the project several times. But now the hangar was half-built, with the office and the upstairs apartment useable, and the rest coming along well enough. The little gray house was habitable as well, the roof repaired and new windows hung, even if it did lack modern conveniences. They were making a place for themselves and Carl was relieved to find that perhaps Shirley might be persuaded to like at least some parts of it.

Shirley was circling the trees now, peering with interest at the stakes Carl had constructed to hold the trunks steady.

"Where did you get them?"

"I happen to know an excellent botanist."

Shirley paused in his perusal. "And how is the winner of the Cooper Prize?"

"She's well," Carl said, glad to be able to say so truthfully. "She's on her way to South America with an expedition; they'll be gone at least two years."

"She's not going for her PhD then?"

"She may. I think she wanted to get away for a while, though. Draw from life."

Shirley nodded. "Good for her."

"Yeah."

There was a small stack of letters in Carl's desk in the corner of the sitting room. Not all of them were from Nellie, but those that were had arrived more regularly this summer than last, to say nothing of the silent summer before that. There were other letters as well, from Professor Michelson, and from the Department of Marine and Fisheries, and from friends who had scattered like dandelion fluff to take root where they could.

"I had a letter from Anthony," Carl ventured. "He's getting married at Christmas."

"Is he?" The raised brow was more eloquent than the question.

Carl shrugged. "He's a minister. No sense putting it off. And Edith seems nice enough."

Shirley made no reply, turning back to the pear leaves in silence.

Carl scrambled for a more neutral topic.

"Uhh . . . how's your kitchen coming along?"

"Alright," Shirley said a bit flatly. "The plumbing's done, and the propane line. I just need to finish building the cabinets."

"I've heard good things about propane. Will you help us convert the stove here when you're done with yours?"

Shirley was still looking at the tree, evidently intent on tracing the veins of a particularly fascinating leaf. "No. No gas."

Carl wrinkled his nose. "No? Everyone has gas stoves now. Even Susan . . ."

"I already talked to Una about it," Shirley cut him off. "She didn't like the gas stoves at the Household Science lab. It's a baking thing."

"But you put in gas for yourself . . ."

Shirley turned toward Carl, slipping an arm around him in a way that made Carl's heart race. He was on his own land, true, but out in the open like this . . .

"It's already decided. Unless you want to do the cooking, Una gets the stove she wants."

"I'm going to have to chop so much wood," Carl groaned.

Shirley squeezed his shoulder. "I'll help. As soon as the hangar is done, I'll come over and spend a whole week stocking that back porch. Just mark the trees you want taken out of the valley."

It was true: there was a half-dead oak down there and a maple leaning so precariously it was sure to be uprooted in the next serious thunderstorm. There was a dodgy-looking pine as well, but that would hardly serve for firewood, all soft and sappy, though it would be alright for kindling.

"You haven't even seen the valley yet," Carl said, quite forgetting non-arboreal topics. "Do you want to?"

"Yes," Shirley said decidedly. "Only . . . can I keep my eyes open this time?"

* * *

Lewis Palmer sat in the shade of a variegated maple in the garden, a magazine open in his lap.

"A magazine today?" Una asked, taking her usual place on the bench beside him. "Did you finish _David Copperfield_ , then?"

Lewis did not reach for his slate. Instead, he folded back the magazine cover and tapped a finger to the title of the article.

Una took it and read aloud: "A Meditation on Luke 12 . . . by Lewis A. Palmer!" The magazine fell to the grass as she sprang from her seat to engulf him in a hug. "Lewis! You've been published!"

Lewis hesitated a moment, but eventually gave back the embrace, patting Una's back gently, as if he was afraid to break her. Una felt his timidity and drew back, chiding herself for being so forward.

"Forgive me," she said. "Just . . . congratulations, Lewis."

He could not respond until Una got down on her knees in the grass to hunt for the slate pencil she had sent skittering away, except to blink indulgently through long, blonde lashes. With pencil back in hand, he wrote, "Don't work yourself into a lather. It's only the _Canadian Churchman_."

Una shook her head emphatically. "It's a wonderful accomplishment! I didn't even know you'd submitted anything."

"Didn't want to get your hopes up."

"You'll have to look to amuse yourself for a while," Una said, taking _David Copperfield_ from the basket of Lewis's wheelchair and handing it to him. "I must read this straight away."

Lewis sat with Dickens open in his lap, but it is doubtful whether he read much, being too occupied with watching Una, following her eyes as they scanned the lines back and forth.

When she had finished, she met his gaze, shining-eyed, the magazine held close against her chest. "Oh, Lewis," she sighed, "that's beautiful. _Fear not: ye are of more value than many sparrows_. Even Father Kirkland couldn't have done better."

He looked away long enough to write, "The editor asked for more."

"Of course he did. It's lovely. I'll have to go pick up a copy for myself on the way home."

"Keep that one."

Una smiled. "I can't take it; it's your copy."

"You won't find another. Mum bought out the bookshop."

"Did she?" Una's smile deepened into a quiet laugh. "I would expect nothing less."

"Keep it," he wrote.

Una thought of the scarlet-covered _Faerie Queen_ she had unpacked yesterday, setting it on the shelf in her bedroom at the little gray house along with its fading letter and an old college paper. She had never thought to expand that small library, but perhaps she should consider it.

"Thank you," she said. "I was thinking that my new bookshelf looked a bit bare."

Lewis scribbled with the verve of someone racing to catch up. "How's the house?"

"It's wonderful," she said. Then, when he raised his brows expectantly, "we painted the kitchen. Yellow. I have a little sewing room above the kitchen where I can do my work without leaving scraps and bits of thread everywhere. It's . . . homey."

"Glad to be away from the manse?"

"I suppose," Una sighed. "I miss Bruce. But he's away at Queen's now. I imagine we'll be over to dinner enough that I won't have too much chance to miss Father and Rosemary."

"Carl likes it?"

A more difficult question, but Una gave a truthful answer. "I think he's glad to be home. We'll get along alright."

* * *

Days were noticeably shorter now. It made Shirley antsy. He had wanted to have the hangar finished before the potato harvest made labor scarce and now the creeping darkness was stealing more minutes every day. Hiring two or three additional Drews had helped move things along, but it still wasn't finished.

A sliver of moon was already up when Shirley drove away from the little gray house, down the dark and uneven road toward Mowbray Narrows. It was only five miles from the house to the hangar, which was close enough that it was silly to feel like he'd been banished. Stupid, really.

They had established ground rules. The truck could never stay overnight at the little gray house. There were few enough autos in the area; people would notice. But that wouldn't be so bad; there was such a thing as a bicycle, much easier to conceal. Besides, now that Carl was finally out of the manse, they could make it work. Una had told Shirley solemnly that he should regard the house as his own, the earnest entreaty in her voice making it clear that she didn't just mean that he was a welcome dinner guest.

 _God love Una Meredith._

Still, they had to be careful. Shirley would live at the hangar, not as a ruse, but as the ordinary state of affairs. It was safer that way.

Up one hill and another, down a shadowed valley flanked with rustling pines. It was dark as a pocket here, with the needle-sharp trees tall and straight and dense as walls to either side. Nothing whispered but the wind, but that didn't mean that Shirley was not glad when the valley flattened into marshland and the encroaching glade gave way to open air once more.

The truck skimmed along under a sky freckled with a thousand thousand stars, constellations bright against the milky spray of galaxies beyond. There had not been skies like this in Kingsport, not with gas street lamps and late-night revelries and ten thousand homes lit up after nightfall. Even at the park, the city had dimmed heaven's lights. It would have been even worse in New York, or Paris, or Berlin, with buildings encroaching on every side, pressing too close.

Could you see the sky in prison?

Useless speculation. Shirley had sent a letter to New York but received no reply, and had contented himself with the fact that it had not been returned to sender.

The truck jolted over a rock on the margin of the road and Shirley swung it back to the middle, shaking himself out of profitless reverie. Driving into a ditch wouldn't help anyone.

There was just one small slope now, then a lane leading off the main road and down to the quiet cove where he had spent these past several months trying to build something worth having. For a single moment, the tinny headlights fell across the sign at the end of the drive, lettered in clear, black paint: _Blythe Aviation_. In a few more weeks, it might even be true.

At the end of the lane, Shirley guided the truck into its stall in the finished portion of the hangar. The Curtiss was parked out on what would someday be a runway, awaiting the safe harbor of the still-roofless hangar, which was large enough to accommodate at least two additional planes. Perhaps he had been ambitious with the plans, but it felt good to have just one thing exactly as he wanted it.

Fishing a torch from under the driver's seat, Shirley lit a narrow path to the door of his public office. This was unfinished as well, but he'd have all winter to sort it out. Through the work zone and up the stairs at the back, Shirley let himself into his apartment.

A single room, sparsely furnished. Any visitor could see at a glance that he lived alone: one narrow bed, one trim wardrobe, nothing hidden away except the washroom with its one toothbrush. Immediately in front of the door, there was a small kitchenette with half-built cabinets between the sink and the icebox. A plain wooden table and three hard chairs. Carl had laughed at that — _one for solitude, two for company, three for society_ — but coming home alone made it hard to remember why it had been funny.

To the left, a small sofa and armchair made a sitting room of sorts, completed by a single bookshelf bearing back issues of _Aerial Age Weekly_ and the copy of _Leaves of Grass_ Shirley had bought for himself in Charlottetown after giving his first copy to his mother. What had happened to the copy Walter had taken to France? It hadn't come home with his other papers. It was strange to think that somewhere over there, among all the mangled bodies and blasted trees, there might be a volume of Whitman returning slowly to the earth.

 _Lose not an atom_ . . .

Blasphemous, perhaps, to equate a book with a body, though Whitman did it himself often enough.

Shirley did not really need to read the words to know them, not after all these years, but he took the book from the shelf anyway and settled onto the narrow, neatly-made bed in the far corner of the room. The pages were supple and the spine soft from frequent perusal, and he let it fall open where it would. Shirley had heard of people praying by letting a Bible fall open to a particular passage as if God had guided them to it. It seemed an unlikely explanation, but Shirley was not entirely surprised to see that _Leaves of Grass_ had delivered him a book-body metaphor in "Whoever You Are Now Holding Me In Hand," addressed to the person holding the volume:

 _The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,  
You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard,  
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,  
The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd,  
Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders,  
Put me down and depart on your way._

Shirley let the book fall onto his chest, still open, pages pressed to his shirt. _The way is suspicious, the result uncertain_. True enough. But they could make a path, couldn't they? Narrow, perhaps, but navigable. _Depart on your way_ . . . no. Not an option. After all, that was only the beginning of the poem. Shirley propped it up again and read on, trying very hard to imagine it:

 _Or else by stealth in some wood for trial,  
Or back of a rock in the open air,  
(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in company,  
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)  
But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares,  
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island,  
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,  
With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss,  
For I am the new husband and I am the comrade._

Just possibly.

* * *

Notes:

Walt Whitman "Whoever You Are Now Holding Me In Hand," _Leaves of Grass_

also various references to Oscar Wilde's "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" (1897)


	18. Sweet Flag

**Sweet Flag**

* * *

Spring 1924

* * *

"I'm so glad you could visit," Amelia Newgate burbled, pouring Una's tea into a cup resplendent with rosebuds and rimmed in gold. "I've been dreaming of wedding china ever since I was a little girl and now that I have my own, I'm positively _desperate_ to use it."

Una smiled sympathetically and accepted the lemon tart Amelia pressed on her.

"Tell me all about yourself," Amelia continued. "There aren't so many neighbors hereabouts and you're only down the road a bit. We've got to stick together."

Una had only intended to make a polite call on her new neighbor, not acquire what Mrs. Blythe would have called a "bosom friend." Nevertheless, she found herself liking gabbling, garrulous Amelia, who was as plump as a partridge, though considerably less timid.

A week ago, Amelia and Archie Newgate had moved into the cheery, red-shingled cottage on the bank of Pelham's Pond, barely a mile down the road from the little gray house on the Lowbridge side. They had leased the house from old Mr. Pelham, who lived in town and had no use for the potato farm he had inherited from an aunt he had never liked in the first place. Archie didn't have enough to buy the place outright, as Amelia had explained in voluble detail, but he had given Mr. Pelham what was left of his service gratuity and a promise that he'd pay off the balance a bit at a time after every harvest. A handshake sealed the bargain and the little gray house gained a neighbor.

"There's not much to tell, I'm afraid," Una said, attempting to deflect Amelia's keen attention.

"Nonsense! Oh, please do tell me. I don't know anyone here and I miss my own folks dreadfully."

"You aren't from Lowbridge, then?" Una asked, cutting a bite of her tart.

"No indeed. That is, Archie is from Lowbridge, but I'm from Hazelbrook. My brother came down to Lowbridge to work at the canning factory and that's where he met Archie. He introduced us, my brother that is, and that was that. We were both _dead gone_ from the start. Of course, Archie didn't want to go on canning forever — his father was a farmer, you know, but his older brother inherited the farm and left Archie with nothing at all. But he's a smart lad, my Arch, and found this place for us and bargained with old Mr. Pelham and so here we are!"

Una suppressed a smile, thinking of the way wee Sam Blythe rattled on when he got going, holding up sticks and flowers for Auntie Una's approval and telling long, imaginative stories about their provenance. Amelia Newgate might be a grown woman, but she was no less excited to share her good fortune with anyone who would listen.

"You've done lovely things with the house already," Una said, gazing around the parlor. The walls were freshly papered with a pattern of roses against a forget-me-not field, echoing the blue of the sofa and the exuberant florals of an impressive hooked rug before the hearth. An assortment of embroidered cushions brightened the chairs and a spray of daffodils on the tea table made the room as genial as its mistress.

"That was all Archie," Amelia beamed. "I didn't know that he had been coming out here to fix the place up, but as soon as I walked in and saw everything all papered so nice and new, I felt like I was home straight away. And now I'm even getting to know the neighbors! Oh, do tell me about yourself Miss Meredith. Unless . . . may I call you Una?"

"If you like."

"Have you always lived out here on the Lowbridge Road, Una?"

"No," Una answered. "I grew up in Glen St. Mary. My brother Carl and I moved here just last autumn."

"He's the one with the eyepatch?" Amelia asked, taking a sip of her tea.

"Yes. He works for the Department of Marine and Fisheries."

"Fancy! And whatever does he do for them?"

"He manages wildlife."

Amelia's mouse-brown brows knit like two caterpillars charging one another. "Whatever does that mean?"

The frankness of her confusion surprised a little laugh out of Una. "I'm not exactly sure myself," she admitted. "He spent most of this past year reading books and preparing all sorts of ledgers I don't understand in the least. He'll go out into the Gulf and observe animals that live there, now that he finally has a boat."

She did not say more about the delay, caused by some Department official's reticence to approve Carl for solo navigation on account of his eye. Carl had spent the better part of a year appealing to the Department, arguing that they had hired him to do a job and could hardly prevent him from doing it just because he had been wounded. Yes, the Pension Board had rated him at a 40% disability, but he was sound of body and had the support of the Four Winds harbormaster, who had seen him sail and would swear under oath that Carl was an able seaman. In the end, Dr. Blythe had written a long, persuasive letter on Carl's behalf, attesting to his physical fitness and using enough medical jargon to impress any bureaucrat. The authorization had come through after that and Carl had gone to Charlottetown straight away to purchase the olive-hulled motorsailer he had had his eye on all along.

"So he goes out sailing?"

"He will soon."

Amelia beamed. "In that case, you must come to visit me often. I insist that you come straight away whenever you want a spot of company."

Una agreed. Then, inquiring after Amelia's own relations, she settled in for a detailed recitation that promised to occupy the rest of the morning.

* * *

It was a perfect day for flying. A few lazy cumulus clouds lolling puffily over Four Winds harbor lent texture to the sky, but offered no impediment. The gentle breezes that whispered through young maple leaves and ruffled stands of June lilies were only refreshing, not inconvenient. It was the sort of day in which children since time immemorial have dreamed of taking flight with the trilling birds. Recently, some had.

Shirley felt the call of the wind, but the late-morning sun found him piloting his truck, not his beloved HS-2L. He jostled over the rutted harbour road, biting his lip in anticipation on his way to the wharf.

He parked under an overhanging oak and hoisted a bulging rucksack from the truckbed. Nodding politely to a pair of gruff old sailors chewing the fat by the harbourmaster's shed, Shirley made his way down the wharf, walking as stealthily as he could. The many empty moorings showed that plenty of boat owners were already out in the Gulf, enjoying the gorgeous day, not hanging around the dock.

Near the end of the wharf, Carl sat on the weathered boards, wholly absorbed in the task of stenciling letters onto the green hull of a lovely little motorsailer. With its warm cherry-wood finishes and dark spars, it looked like a little scrap of forest afloat. It was by no means the sleekest boat in the harbor, nor the fastest, but it was sturdy and comfortable and could be crewed by a single man. Perfect for day trips to Cape Breton or overnights in the Magdalens, counting migratory birds or singing with the whales or whatever it was Carl actually did for work.

Shirley had an overwhelming urge to surprise Carl with a kiss. A strip of bare, sunburnt skin showed clear on the back of his neck where his collar gaped invitingly. But the sun was shining and there were people about, so there was nothing for it. Shirley had long ago stopped tallying the times he wanted to kiss Carl and couldn't. Self-control was one thing; self-negation another. Instead, he stepped past Carl and folded himself cross-legged onto the wharf beside him, their knees not quite touching.

Carl did not look up. Chewing his lip in concentration, he peeled the final letter stencil from the hull. The characters, bold in black against the olive hull, proclaimed the vessel's name to all the world.

"You went with _Sweet Flag_ after all?" Shirley asked, nodding toward the letters.

"Yep."

Shirley didn't bother trying to hide his amusement. "Not worried about scandalizing Rilla? I doubt she's forgotten good old Calamos and Carpos."

Carl sat back, surveying his work with a critical eye. "I'm sure she hasn't," he said, sounding satisfied.

 _What would happen_ , Shirley wondered, _if I just reached out right now, pulled him to me, kissed him here in the sunshine in the midst of the human world, rather than skulking around, waiting for cover of night or the privacy of complete isolation . . ._

"And you're not worried she might have told Ken about all that?" he asked lightly.

Carl chuckled. "I would pay good money to watch Rilla tell Ken that story."

"Can you imagine?" Shirley had a sudden vision of his sister, crimson-cheeked and lisping with vexation, explaining to a stone-faced Ken that Calamos and Carpos were very, _very_ good friends.

"What are you doing down here, anyway?" Carl asked, picking tape off the stencils. "Aren't you giving a lesson this afternoon?"

Shirley allowed himself a smile. "Nope. George Davis had to run into town on business. I'm a free man. So I thought I'd come down and hitch a ride on the maiden voyage of the _Sweet Flag_."

Carl frowned. "I wasn't going to take her out until tomorrow morning."

Shirley said nothing, waiting until Carl looked up from his paint-stained fingers to see what the trouble was. When he did, Shirley blinked innocently back at him.

Carl did not require further persuasion. "Ok, fine. I just need to run home first to get something to eat."

"I brought a picnic," Shirley said, rising to his feet and dusting off his pants.

"You've got this all planned out, don't you?"

Shirley held out a hand and pulled Carl to his feet with a wicked smirk. "Indeed, I do."

"Wait a minute," Carl said, recoiling. "You're not here to check up on me are you?"

"What?"

Carl crossed his arms over his chest. "I can sail this boat myself."

"I know you can."

"I don't need any help."

Shirley held up his hands defensively. "I'm _really_ not here about the boat, Kit."

"No?"

The grin that very much wanted to erupt came out as a sparkle of mischief in the brown eyes. "Let's get going and I'll prove it."

* * *

A chill, rainy Friday found Shirley on the veranda at Ingleside, clutching a bouquet of bedraggled tulips he had expropriated from Una's garden. Of course, Una had spent the better part of the week at Ingleside, only having gone home this morning for a bit of well-deserved rest. Shirley wondered whether he ought to have come sooner, but really, there were more than enough people in the house as it was.

Should he knock? That seemed awfully formal, but this wasn't his house. It was stupid to stand on the porch like this, though. Rather than barge in the front, he decided to slip around to the kitchen door, calling, "Hello?" as he entered.

The metallic clatter of an avalanche from the pantry invited Shirley's immediate assistance.

"Are you alright?" he asked, lifting half a dozen cake pans from Susan's frantically braced arms.

"Oh, I should know better," Susan groused, flexing her freed wrist. "Jem made me a very sturdy stepstool for fetching things from the high shelf and I'm just too stubborn to use it."

Shirley deposited the cake pans and the tulips on the chopping block and escorted Susan to her rocking chair by the window. Lowering himself into the window seat beside her, he prodded her wrist gingerly. When she winced, he grimaced.

"Is Dad home? Or Jem?"

"Nonsense," Susan sniffed. "I'm perfectly alright."

Shirley meant to go hunt out one of the various Doctors Blythe, but was spared the trouble by the precipitous entrance of two small and shrieking boys, pursued by a cardboard-masked creature on all fours who might have been either a lion or a pig. Whatever it was supposed to be, it menaced Sam and Wally into half-nervous giggles with its hearty roars. Spotting Shirley, the boys raced to climb him, tiny fingers digging frantically into his shirt as they scrabbled up to the safety of higher ground.

"Shirley!" the lion-pig said, panting slightly and sitting back on his heels as he pushed his mask up over mussed curls. "Didn't hear you come in. How are you?"

"Fine, Dad," Shirley said, bobbling young Sam as Wally poked an exploratory index finger into his ear. "But could you take a look at Susan's wrist?"

"Burn?" Gilbert asked, using the edge of the big oak table to steady himself as he rose to his feet. "Cut? Marriage proposal gone wrong?"

"That was seven years ago," Susan sniffed. "And I did not injure myself in the process."

Gilbert and Susan spent the next several minutes parrying back and forth, neither quite landing a decisive blow.

Sam, less than enthralled by their sparring, leaned close to Shirley's ear and whispered, "I've got a new baby sister."

"I heard," Shirley said, nodding solemnly. "Do you like her?"

Sam shook his caramel curls emphatically. "She's too loud. And she's all red. She's got orange hair like Wally's!"

"I got a new baby sister when I was Wally's age," Shirley sympathized. "She had red hair, too."

"Hair," Wally added, patting his own head for emphasis.

"Does your sister have a name?"

Sam frowned at this, thinking hard. "Yes," he admitted at last. "But I don't remember."

"Jemima," Susan interjected from the rocker, where she had reluctantly assented to Gilbert's examination. "Far be it from me to question such things, but did you ever hear the like? There's never been a Jemima in either the Blythe or the Meredith connections, as far as I have been able to discover. Nor a Beatrice, either, though Mrs. Dr. has informed me that Beatrice is from Shakespeare and I suppose I might have expected that from Nan and Jerry."

"Jemima is a Biblical name, Susan," Gilbert chided with lips quirked. "One of the daughters of Job born after his blessings were restored. Surely you can't fault them choosing a name from Scripture."

"Oh, indeed? Then I suppose you'd never bat an eye at a Nebuchadnezzar or a Zerubbabel, Dr. Dear?"

The twinkle in Gilbert's hazel eyes made it difficult to say for certain whether he argued from conviction or for the sheer love of antagonizing Susan. "Not if there were a reason for it, I wouldn't."

"And just what is the reasoning behind Jemima?" Susan asked in a huff.

"It's from the war," Shirley said unexpectedly, drawing all attention to himself in an instant and suddenly wondering if he had spoken out of turn. "I mean . . . Una mentioned . . . well, I didn't think it was a secret. That Faith promised that she'd name a daughter Jemima . . . if she ever had one."

Perhaps not a secret, but the simultaneous draining of color from both Susan's and Gilbert's faces told Shirley plain enough that neither Jem nor Faith had explained the origins of wee Jemima's name in the hours since her birth.

"Sorry," Shirley muttered. "I shouldn't have said . . ."

He was interrupted by the kitchen door opening to reveal Anne and Rosemary, hands full of decimated tea trays, the residue of some joke still lingering in their joyous smiles.

"Shirley!" Anne said with delight. Then, noting the slack grayness of Gilbert and Susan, she stopped short. "What? What's happened?"

Gilbert shook himself back into animation, though his pallor was not notably less. "Nothing. We just . . . had an unexpected memory."

Anne looked to Shirley, all confusion.

"My fault," Shirley said. "Sorry."

"No indeed," Susan objected, rising from her chair and wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron. "I daresay it's shameful, the way I forget sometimes. Never for long, mind, but sometimes."

"It's alright, Susan," Gilbert said, clearing his throat. "I forget too. It only makes remembering that much worse."

Anne and Rosemary exchanged a worried look, but the fragile moment did not last long. Sam wriggled away from Shirley to investigate the remnants of the tray Anne had set on the table; Wally reached pudgy arms toward his grandmothers and cuddled into Rosemary's shoulder with a sigh. Susan bustled off to fix the boys' tea, having convinced Gilbert that she was not substantially inconvenienced by a bruised wrist.

Unsure where his place was, Shirley stood awkwardly by until his mother came and took him gently by the arm.

"Come with me, sweetheart," she said. "I want your opinion on something."

Shirley blinked but complied, following Anne to the sitting room. It was much as it ever had been, albeit with more toys scattered about than he remembered from his own childhood. Perhaps that was the indulgence of grandparents; perhaps it was only that the last forty-eight hours had been harried enough that no one had bothered themselves over Sam's trains and Wally's blocks.

As Anne rummaged through the books in the barrister's case, Shirley extracted an ancient, earless sawdust dog from between the sofa cushions. He was surprised it still existed; Nan had given it to him when he was small, that year when Mother had been so very ill and they had _all felt the chill and the fear and went softly and unhappily_.* Contemplating the stuffed dog's forlorn face, the awful uncertainty of that time came rushing back unexpectedly. Shirley found it oddly comforting to realize that the prospect of losing his mother had once been something he had feared.

"Here it is!" Anne said triumphantly, brandishing a slim volume bound in tan cloth. "Uncle Paul sent this to me after I confessed that his Whitman intrigued me."

Shirley's ears pricked at the name, wondering just what to make of the possessive adjective. He set down the dog and took the proffered book: "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot.

"Do you know Eliot?" Anne asked, hands clasped beneath her chin.

Shirley shook his head, opening the cover and letting the pages slip through his fingers. "I don't really know much about poetry, Mum."

"You've said that before," she said, a red brow arched in challenge. "Though whenever you've ventured an opinion, I've had reason to believe that you sell yourself far too short."

The first page was open under his hand, the opening stanza beckoning.

 _April is the cruelest month, breeding  
_ _Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing  
_ _Memory and desire, stirring  
_ _Dull roots with spring rain._

Shirley frowned uncertainly and tried to hand the volume back. "I don't know . . ."

Anne did not unclasp her hands.

"Take it," she said. "If you don't like it, no harm done. But either way, I'd like to hear your thoughts."

Shirley's mouth felt thick, his tongue unresponsive. At best, he would only disappoint her; at worst, she might ask questions he couldn't answer. "Mum . . . I'm not . . ."

Her smile was one part understanding, one part mercy. "This isn't Walter's sort of poetry," she said, eyes bright but not brimming. "At least, not the kind he loved before he went away."

Shirley did not answer, turning the book over in his hands. It was awfully small for such a minefield.

Anne reached out and laid a slender white hand on Shirley's arm. "You once gave me _Leaves of Grass_ ," she said, doing a poorer job of hiding her tears. "I don't know whether you really knew how much it meant to me then."

Swallowing hard, Shirley risked eye contact. Tears or no, he recognized the hope in his mother's face. Risky, yes, but perhaps not fatal.

He smiled, or tried to. "I could say the same to you."

* * *

Una would not have admitted as much, but she was tired. Her feet ached, her throat stung, and she had cried quietly for most of the first mile of her way home from Lowbridge.

Lewis Palmer was ill; too ill to write, though he had squeezed Una's hand in recognition as she sat beside him, reading aloud the chapters he had marked in his Bible for future meditations. Dr. Parker had promised to call Dr. Blythe for a second opinion, but if he agreed that infection had taken hold, there was little enough they could do. Dr. Parker had tried to offer a kind word, not understanding that it was no comfort at all to say that Lewis had defied the odds longer than anyone expected. Was it sinful, Una wondered, to chafe against God's will, rather than rejoicing in what time they had been given?

Lewis was stable now, having fallen asleep sometime around the middle of John 12. Una would have sat up all night, but Mrs. Palmer had seen her exhaustion and sent her home for rest and fresh clothes. Some secret, guilty part of Una was glad of the respite, though she would not have admitted that either.

Some might call the three-mile walk from Lowbridge lonely, but Una preferred to think of it as peaceful. By the second mile, the budding world of hopeful spring had eased some of the tightness in her throat, though her eyes still smarted. She noted a place where an errant tangle of early pink roses was beginning to bloom, thinking that she should gather some for Lewis on her way back in the morning.

A mile from home, Una passed the Newgate house and sighed. She really ought to drop by and see how Amelia was getting on; she hadn't been all week. But not just now. At the moment, all Una wanted was to get home and fix something simple for supper. Perhaps Welsh rarebit? She wasn't up to much more than that.

Past Pelham's Pond. Past a hayfield that belonged to St. Elizabeth's; a farmer paid Father Kirkland a small rent to harvest hay there. Past the overhanging oak that marked the home stretch.

When she rounded the last bend in the road, Una was surprised to find the little gray house dark. It was just about nightfall and Carl should have been home by sunset. He knew how Una worried when he stayed out on the water late, unless he warned her ahead of time.

Una slipped a slender hand into her purse and groped for her key, but froze at a muffled thud from somewhere behind the door. Trying the latch instead, she found it unlocked. Una was sure she had locked the door that morning, knowing that both she and Carl would be out all day. Perhaps he was home after all?

"Hello? Carl?"

Slipping into the darkened hall, Una paused, still as a mouse trying to read the air with twitching whiskers. No light, no sound. But from the recesses of the house, she caught the scent of something warm and bready. Surely burglars wouldn't bother to bake . . .

Una took a ginger step down the hall, then another. When she reached the kitchen door, she called again. "Carl?"

A match hissed, a kerosene lamp blazed, and Una threw up a hand to shield herself as someone — more than one someone — shouted, "Happy Birthday!"

"Oh!" Una gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.

The little yellow kitchen seemed to be bursting at the seams. The enamel-top table, set with Cecilia Meredith's china, was laden with steaming dishes, a vase of exuberantly diverse wildflowers, and an undeniably impressive chocolate-frosted cake on a cut-glass stand. Behind it, Carl and Shirley were squashed into a corner by the ice-box, both of them beaming jubilantly. Most of the floorspace was taken up by . . .

"Is that a . . . bicycle?" Una asked, when she had recovered breath enough to speak.

"Did you ever see a bicycle with three wheels?" Carl laughed as Shirley elbowed him in the ribs.

In truth, Una had never seen anything quite like the curious vehicle dominating her kitchen. Bright blue, with one large wheel in front and two slightly smaller behind, it sported a broad saddle, gracefully curved handlebars, and a voluminous basket fastened behind the seat.

"Is it . . . for me?"

"Well of course it is," Carl grinned, blue eye flashing in the lamplight. "Unless someone else in the house has a birthday today!"

"We thought you might like to get to Lowbridge more easily," Shirley said, wheeling the trike forward a foot or two and strumming a chirp out of its bell.

Una stretched out a hand and ran tentative fingers over the cool metal of the frame.

"It's very stable," Carl added. "Even if it's raining or muddy, you won't have to worry about skidding. And Shirley put in an extra-large basket in case you're bringing donations to the church or delivering parcels, or anything like that."

"For me . . ." Una echoed, still unbelieving.

Carl beamed. "And supper, too! Now, you're not to do any dishes — none at all. And tomorrow we'll take the trike out for a spin to make sure that the seat and pedals are right."

Una regarded the food with interest: a savory custard with onions and peppers, a mountain of garden greens, fresh-baked biscuits, and that toothsome-looking cake.

"Carl, did you . . . bake?"

Carl grinned wider than ever. "Nope. That's all Shirley."

"Shirley?" Una found herself smiling as well, looking up with curiosity at the man who towered above her, arms crossed over his broad chest in mild exasperation.

"Why is everyone always so surprised that I can bake?" Shirley sighed. "Didn't I spend my whole childhood in the kitchen at Ingleside? You'd think I never paid any attention."

Carl affected his best impression of Mrs. Marshall Elliott. "Showy looks are well and good, dearie, but I say we reserve judgment of your baking skills until we've had a chance to taste for ourselves."

Una smiled as Carl stepped nimbly out of Shirley's reach, the tricycle providing an excellent bulwark between them.

"Laugh all you like," Shirley said, "but there's nothing wrong with that cake."

"I'm sure there isn't," Carl smiled, stepping forward and tipping his face up for a conciliatory kiss. Shirley obliged him, leaning over the trike, which, true to its billing, did not tip even when Carl pulled him forward for a more ardent apology.

A small pain somewhere under her ribs interrupted Una's smile. It was very good to see them happy, of course. They had obviously put thought and time and effort into this surprise, and she resolved to show her appreciation, no matter what.

Smiling, Una took her place at the table and gestured for Carl and Shirley to join her. She reached out one hand to each of them, and when they had completed the circle, she prayed.

"Lord, thank you for all your blessings. For food, and love, and another year in which to serve You and one another." She paused, looking from Carl to Shirley and back again. "And thank both of _you_ ," she said sincerely, "for the tricycle."

* * *

*Anne of Ingleside, chapter 26


	19. Will You Always Love Me? (Reprise)

**Will You Always Love Me? (Reprise)**

* * *

July, 1924

* * *

"Whisk these for me, won't you, dear?"

The bounty on display in the Ingleside kitchen reminded Shirley of a painting he had seen at the Louvre during one of those solitary days after the war, when he had paced its endless halls in silence. He had stared at the old Flemish masters, with their glistening oysters and bursting grapes in exuberant abundance, and felt glad that they were all safely dead. Now, here it was again, the spoils of the Golden Age, in curling peels of lemon and clutches of heavy eggs set out in bowls on the hewn oak worktable, filtered sunlight caressing every wholesome curve.

Tomorrow, Persis Ford would marry a rich American she had met on the coast two summers ago, and she had insisted that the only wedding cake good enough for her guests was a Susan Baker original.

"Everyone still talks about Nan's cake," Persis had said when she came up to Ingleside to beg Susan's indulgence. "And Rilla's, too. And Rosemary Meredith's, and that was over fifteen years ago! Some wedding cakes are dry as bandage lint after sitting out so long being decorated. But not your cakes, Susan. They're so plummy and rich. You could open a shop if you wanted to!"

Susan had done a poor job of hiding her delight. The recipe was a secret of hers and no one — not even Mrs. Dr. Blythe — knew it, except perhaps Shirley, who had helped in the making enough times to commit it to memory.

He obliged again now, taking the whisk from Susan's calloused fingers and frothing the egg whites. This cake required a full week's eggs, and beating them was a job for a strong arm. At 73, Susan Baker was still the undisputed queen of the Ingleside kitchen, still the author of perfect pot roasts and sensational strawberry pies. But Shirley had made a point of coming over today, knowing that a wedding cake might be getting beyond her stamina. Susan had greeted him with a joyous embrace and shooed Sam and little Wally out into the yard with a plate of monkey-faces so that she could have her own boy all to herself.

"It's a sight easier to do when you have someone else doing the hard work," Susan observed as the egg whites began to rise into foamy peaks.

"I'm happy to help," Shirley said, and meant it.

"I appreciate that," Susan assured him, "but when it's your own wedding, you'll leave the egg whites to me. It would never do to have a man make his own wedding cake!"

No, it wouldn't, but both Susan and the hens could rest easy on that count. There had been many times in the year since he had returned from Kingsport when Shirley had been so close to telling her, but had refrained. What she didn't know couldn't hurt her, or so he had told himself.

But Shirley had not counted on the relentlessness of Susan's campaign. A parade of eligible maidens tripped off her tongue every time he stepped into her orbit, boasting their virtues in a never-ending matrimonial pageant. It was never going to stop.

"Trust her," Carl had said. "She loves you."

Now was the time, if he was brave enough.

Shirley gritted his teeth and dove in, pennants streaming behind him in the wind.

"I don't think I'll ever be in much need of a wedding cake," he ventured.

"Nonsense," said Susan crisply. "I can't say but I'm glad you didn't find a girl in Kingsport. Hand me that grater? Plenty of lovely Island girls right here at home."

Shirley cleared his throat. "No, Susan. I'm not going to get married."

"There now, dearie, don't talk such rubbish," Susan chided, zesting a sun-yellow lemon. "You're quite young yet. You just have to find the right girl."

Shirley set the bowl of egg whites on the table, focusing all his attention on Susan. "There isn't one. Not for me."

"Of course there is," she replied, folding the eggs into the batter. "I've kept an eye out around the Glen, and there are some real nice young ladies about. Have you met Aurelia Drew? She's a few years younger than you, but pretty as a picture and a real fine cook, too. Her mother was a Taylor from . . ."

"No, Susan, I'm not interested in Aurelia Drew. I . . . that is . . ."

Susan paused in her stirring, squinting as Shirley fumbled, trailing off into silence.

"There _is_ someone," she said. "Someone I haven't noticed? But then . . . oh!" Susan clapped a hand to her chest, leaving a floury print over her heart. "It's Una Meredith. Goodness, I should I have guessed. She's the only girl I've ever seen you talking with. Well, I can't say she's the belle of the Glen, but Una Meredith is a sweet, honest, good-tempered . . ."

"Not Una, Susan." Shirley meant to go gently, but was finding it unexpectedly difficult to speak plainly. "I'm not interested in any girl. And I'm not going to get married."

Susan frowned into her batter. "Shirley, I want to see you settled and happy. To know you have someone to take care of you."

"I _am_ happy," Shirley said, his mouth gone to cotton. "I have you. And Carl."

"Oh, fiddlesticks," Susan said, applying her spoon with renewed vigor. "I'm no spring chicken, young man. And Carl will get married, sooner or later, and then he'll be busy with his own family."

 _Here goes._

"He won't."

"Of course he will."

Shirley reached across the flour sifter and the mangled innards of an orange to pluck the bowl from Susan's hands. Setting it on the table, he stilled the perpetually busy hands with his own and looked her in the eye.

"No, Susan. Listen to me. There's no girl out there for me. Not anywhere. And none for Carl, either. Neither of us is ever, ever going to get married. Ever."

Susan peered at him, eyes gone sharp and body still, like a prowling cat caught in a torch beam. Shirley held her gaze, willing her to see him as she had on a day long ago, when he had been a child crying into her apron right here in this very kitchen. A day when she had promised that she would always love him, whether he was a horse thief or a pirate or a vampire or . . .

"Oh!" Susan exclaimed, withdrawing her hands with a start.

"Susan . . ."

"You can't mean . . ." she spluttered. "Shirley, no!"

"Susan . . ."

She shook her head, a lock of gray hair working its way loose from her bun. "No. I . . . I don't believe you. Why would you say something like that? You're not . . . you're not like _that_. And Carl? No."

"Susan . . ."

"Does your father know about this?"

"No, Susan, please don't . . ."

"I don't believe you. I can't. I won't."

"Susan, if you'll just let me explain . . ." Shirley caught at her apron.

"No. I refuse to discuss this. Not in my kitchen. No."

And with that, Susan Baker wrenched her apron free from Shirley's grasp. The swift motion upset the batter bowl, sending it smashing onto the floor. Unbaked wedding cake seeped across the boards in a fragrant puddle, fluffy with egg foam and citrus peel. Susan did not spare a glance for the mess oozing across her pristine floor. She turned and walked out the kitchen door, letting it slam shut behind her.

* * *

On the morning after Persis Ford's wedding, Shirley sat alone in his apartment at the hangar, pushing a fried egg from one side of his plate to the other and back again. The wedding had been a glamorous affair, hosted at a hotel down the shore and attended by glittering ladies and men who spoke of stock markets and securities. Shirley had put in a brief appearance at the reception for his mother's sake, long enough to hear someone comment that the cake had come out rather dense, hadn't it, and old Susan Baker must be losing her touch.

Shirley sighed and was about to rise and rinse his plate when a hesitant knock interrupted his solitude.

Crossing the small space to the door, he opened it, revealing Susan Baker in the flesh, carrying a cake of the ordinary variety. She did indeed look older.

"Susan!"

To his own ears, his voice sounded childlike. Surely he had been a child the last time he had been so relieved to see her.

"Shirley," Susan said, her own trepidation evident in the uncharacteristic whisper. "I . . . I brought you a spice cake."

"Come in," he said, breath coming short. "Please come in."

Susan stepped cautiously into the small apartment, eyes darting to and fro as if searching its uncomplicated angles for hidden things. There weren't any, not in this single bare box with just enough room for one person who did not own much of anything. What little there was was scrupulously tidy — Shirley's natural inclination honed by military discipline. Even Susan could find no fault with the precise corners on the narrow bed, softened only by the tobacco-stripe quilt folded across its foot. The kitchenette near the door was spotless, but not from disuse. A tea kettle stood ready on the stove next to the frying pan, and a prim glass dome holding a plate of scones adorned the little white table where the uneaten egg sat congealing Flemishly on its plate.

Susan nodded toward the scones. "You didn't bake, did you?"

Shirley shrugged. "I've watched you enough times."

"There is a considerable difference between watching and doing, my dear," Susan replied with a hint of her customary vim.

"I know," Shirley said, feeling the smallest smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "But I can. I made a cake for Una's birthday . . ."

Susan pursed her lips.

"I'm not starving, Susan. I get along fine. Watch. I'll make you a cup of tea and you can tell me where I've gone wrong."

She couldn't. There was nothing whatever the matter with the tea. Shirley poured and Susan cut the spice cake she had brought, setting it out on the plain white dishes Shirley fetched from the cupboard. They sipped in silence a while, neither sure just how to begin.

When the silence became uncomfortable, Susan clicked her teacup into her saucer. "I'm sorry, Shirley," she said, though she did not look at him.

"Don't apologize, Susan," he said in a rush. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"But I did." Susan raised her eyes and Shirley could see that they were brimming with unshed tears. "This is all my fault."

"Your fault?"

"It's my fault," she repeated. "All of it. I . . . I over-mothered you. People say that's what does it, you know. Boys who have too much mothering. I never could spank you, even when you needed it, and scolded your father when he tried. You already had a mother . . . you didn't need another. But I was . . . selfish. I loved you too much. And now . . ."

Shirley might have smiled, but Susan's distress was pouring down her face in rivulets and it wouldn't do to belittle her fears.

Instead, he took her hand.

"It's not your fault, Susan. It's no one's fault. I don't even think it's a fault at all."

"People say it's an illness . . ." she hiccuped.

"I'm not ill."

"That it's caused by mothers having too much influence . . ."

Shirley's brief impulse toward smiling had vanished completely. Could Susan really think that she had damaged him with her love? Susan, who had saved his life when he was born and spent the intervening years encouraging him, teaching him, remembering him even when no one else at Ingleside seemed to?

"Be reasonable, Susan," he said, pressing her hand. "You never hurt me and never could."

"But I have!" she wailed. "If it's true, what you say . . . that you . . . that you're . . ."

"Homosexual?"

Susan blanched at the term, and Shirley resolved to stick to everyday language for the sake of kindness.

"I know what people say," he said gently. "But truthfully, Susan, even if you think I had too much mothering, that doesn't explain anything. What about Carl? Do you really think that he was over-mothered in his childhood?"

This appeared to be a new thought, judging by Susan's forceful blink. "No . . . no, I can't say that he was."

"Well, then. There's that theory shot, if I had too many mothers and he had too few, and we both ended up in the same place."

Susan took a fortifying sip of tea, mulling this new perspective as she drank. "How do you explain it then?" she asked.

Shirley shrugged. "I don't, particularly. There are lots of theories, I suppose, but I don't see how it helps to look for a _why_ unless you want to change what already is. And I don't. I'm not ill, and I don't particularly want to be cured."

Frowning, Susan set down her cup. "Shirley, do your parents know? That you . . . that you're . . ." she faltered. "I can't say it . . ."

"I love Carl, Susan. You could just say that."

Susan sniffled. "They don't know, do they?"

"They may have guessed," Shirley shrugged. "But I haven't told them."

"Will you?"

"Not if I can help it."

"But you told me."

Shirley brought his other hand to cover their linked fingers. "You once promised that you would love me, no matter what. Even if I killed someone. And I have, Susan. Lots. And it's never stopped you yet."

"Did you know back then?" she asked, voice faint. "You were only a child."

"I didn't know what it meant," Shirley answered with complete sincerity. "But I knew I was different from the others."

"At eleven?"

"That's about when people generally start noticing one another, isn't it?"

Susan blinked away a leftover tear. "And you're very sure? You don't think it might just be . . . a phase?"

That did make Shirley smile, though he swallowed the accompanying laugh. "Quite sure. It's definitely not a phase."

"And Carl? You and him . . . I mean, the two of you . . ."

Shirley squeezed Susan's hand. This time, she returned the caress.

"Listen to me, Susan," he said. "I love Carl. I have for a long time. And he loves me. We haven't changed; it's just that you know us better now."

Susan drew her hand away, not in retreat, but so that she could dab her eyes with a sturdy handkerchief and muster her courage for what must be done next.

"Not as well as I'd like," she sniffed, a whiff of crispness returning to her tone. "I have a few questions."

Shirley gulped, but if she needed clarification, he could steel himself and try to answer whatever questions she might have, though the prospect was more than a little unnerving. Certainly he would try to be generous, but the thought of answering all her questions kindled a queasy panic in his gut. "I . . . I'll try to tell you anything you're really sure you want to know . . ."

"I don't know enough about Carl," Susan said. "What is all this nonsense about not eating meat? None at all? Not even fish? And when it comes to baking, does he prefer gingerbread or monkey-faces? I know that all of the manse children used to be wild for doughnuts before Rosemary married Rev. Meredith, and even now, you know Una never does put enough sugar in her . . ."

Perhaps Susan would have arrived at another question eventually, but she did not get a chance. Before she could complete her thought, Shirley had pulled her to her feet and into an embrace that lifted her quite off them. He hung his head low over her shoulder, too tall now to bury his face in it as he had done when he was small.

"I love you, Susan."

"I love you, too, Shirley. And always will."


	20. If There Were Water

**If There Were Water**

* * *

December 1925

* * *

Of all the hours in Una Meredith's week, this was the one she cherished most. Other hours were for visiting the sick and feeding the hungry, but this one was for her. A solitary, silent ride through the crepuscular mists to Lowbridge; a few serene moments alone in the church, out of time, out of the world. There was no one here but Una and God and the jewel-glass St. Elizabeth, timid dawn-light glowing softly through her roses.

Una padded noiselessly past the pews, through the little side door to the sacristy, emerging soon after with arms draped in linens. She knelt a moment at the chancel rail before entering the sanctuary, praying in her heart: _Lord, please accept the work of my hands. Bless me as I care for the holy things of Thy house, grant me a devout spirit and a reverent demeanor, that my offering may be made worthy of Thy table._ *

She could set the altar in a matter of heartbeats if she needed to, but it was not a thing to be rushed. Una ran steady hands over the waxed-linen cere cloth that protected the altar from dirt and damp. There were no wrinkles, of course, but it was the proper way to begin.

Mrs. Palmer had been in to do the ironing on Friday, readying the violet frontal with its delicate gold embroidery for Advent. The decorative cloth was rich and beautiful in a way that not many things in Una's world were, at least not beyond these walls. Opulent. Most of the work was Mrs. Palmer's, though plenty of the tiny, even stitches were Una's own. It had given her an excuse to keep on with her Saturday visits this past year, and for that, Una was grateful. She smoothed and straightened, making sure that the metallic border aligned with the edge of the altar, neither sagging nor rippling across its face.

Next came the heavy, snow-white fair linen cloth with its deep lace trim and the five small crosses that marked its center and edges. Una did not know who had made it; probably someone long dead, judging by the suppleness of the fabric, washed and washed a thousand times, rinsed before and after in clear water that must be poured out on bare ground, never down a drain. Una had done it herself often enough, having long ago ceased caring what Miss Cornelia might think of such a libation.

Una placed the polished brass candlesticks on the front corners of the altar, their fresh white tapers pointed heavenward.** Then she stepped back to make sure that all was neat and symmetrical. It was, of course, and the rightness of that satisfied her like the snug fit of a hand in a glove.

Back through the chancel rail and kneeling again, Una whispered a psalm, thrilling to the knowledge that other women in other Altar Guilds were even at this very moment reciting it in their own empty churches: _Lord, I have loved the habitation of Thy house, and the place where Thine honor dwelleth_.***

Una made no sound as she slipped back toward the sacristy. Father Kirkland would be along soon, and would need his vestments laid out beside the complicated linens for the chalice. Una would see to all that. But first, she would pause — just for a moment — to pay her respects to the brass memorial plaque near the sacristy door:

Lewis A. Palmer  
1895-1924  
Christian  
Soldier  
Son  
Friend  
For where your treasure is,  
there will your heart be also.****

* * *

The sales counter at the department store in Charlottetown was festooned with holly and bright red ribbon. The glass cases glittered with a hundred enticing baubles — watches and stickpins, cufflinks and cigarette cases, billfolds and lighters — all arrayed in opulent profusion, waiting to be wrapped for Christmas morning.

Carl admired the wares, but he had come to town with a plan. It was always impossible to to buy gifts for Shirley, who never wanted anything but what he already had and didn't put too much stock in that either. The only material things he actually loved were vehicles, but you couldn't exactly wrap an airplane for Christmas, now could you? As if he needed another of the infernal machines.

This past fall, an idea had come to Carl in a giddy moment aboard the _Sweet Flag_. They had been out on the water for three days and there had been no point in trying to shave on a rocking boat. Up on deck with the autumn sunset setting the sea aflame in apricot and blushing rose, Shirley's stubble had prickled along Carl's skin, raising gooseflesh where it scraped. Carl had chuckled to himself, remembering the first letter he had received in England: _No need to worry — I won't tell anyone about your close shave_.

A good line. Carl had read those few scant words until they had imprinted themselves indelibly on his heart, then burned the page, letting the incriminating ashes filter through his fingers.

Things were not so dire now. Carl could put a note in with the gift, knowing it would not be censored and need not be burned. _I won't tell anyone about your close shave either_. Yes, that was just the thing.

"Do you see anything you like?" A blonde-bobbed salesgirl, pert and pretty, with red lipstick so unnaturally perfect she might have been an advertisement herself.

Carl beamed at her, eliciting a mirroring grin. "I'm in search of a straight razor. A fancy one."

"Of course!" chirped Lipstick, beckoning for him to follow her to the other side of the display. "What style do you prefer? We have ivory-handled, mahogany-handled, silver-handled . . ."

She drew a velvet-draped tray from the glass case and set it on the counter. A row of razors gleamed, all of them embossed or embellished or glowing with the warmth of exotic woods.

"Try this one," she said, offering Carl a delicate ivory model carved with vines and flowers. "It suits you. See if it fits your hand well."

Carl felt as if he had missed a step going down stairs, but recovered at once. What did it matter if Lipstick assumed that he was purchasing the razor for himself? The misunderstanding could do no harm.

He hummed, turning the razor over in his hand. "It's lovely," he said, handing it back. "Maybe a bit too floral, though."

The salesgirl nodded conspiratorially. "Yes, I see that now. I think I have just the thing, though."

She plucked an opalescent specimen from the display and laid it in Carl's hand. It was beautiful — in fact, it was exactly the razor Carl would have selected if he had been shopping for himself. The mother-of-pearl handle shone in a delicate play of dove gray and iridescent pinks and blues, swirling toward the acanthus leaves carved at either extremity. The blade itself was labeled _Puma Gold_ in black and bronze amid an enameled pattern of delicate vines. Carl sighed audibly the moment it touched his palm.

Lipstick grinned in triumph. "It comes with a patent leather case. May I wrap it for you?"

Carl opened and closed the blade, admiring the smoothness of its action. It was perfect. But not for Shirley.

"No," he said regretfully, placing it back on the counter. "I think I need something more . . . substantial."

The salesgirl blinked her long, mascaraed lashes in a brief flicker of skepticism, but she recovered quickly. "Of course," she said, upping the wattage of her crimson smile.

A knot of nervous agitation coiled deep in Carl's gut. This woman was just doing her job — and doing it well! He felt inexplicably that he must apologize to her.

"Sorry," he blurted. "That one was just right. Really. It was perfect. It's only . . . it isn't for me. It's a gift."

"Oh!" Lipstick relaxed, her face taking on more natural lines. "Of course! For whom?"

"Um . . . my . . . brother." Did people give expensive razors to their brothers? What would Jerry make of such a gift? "I borrowed his," Carl said, inventing wildly, "last time I visited. And then I . . . broke it. It was a very nice razor. I thought I should replace it."

 _Stop talking stop talking stop talking_.

"That's very thoughtful of you."

"Uh huh."

"Tell me about him."

"Sorry?"

"Your brother. What sort of chap is he?"

Oh, this was not going well. Carl could feel his skin prickling in protest against the confines of his shirt, his collar growing tighter by the moment.

 _Just breathe._

"He's . . . um . . . an engineer? He likes . . . simple things. Well-made, but not fussy."

Lipstick was nodding along, pursing her vivid mouth in concentration. She skimmed slim fingers over the display, coming to rest over a thick rosewood handle, streaked in sunset tones.

"Beautiful," Carl said, rolling its heft in his palm. "It's nearly right. He'd like the natural wood. Maybe a bit too cumbersome, though? Do you have anything more . . . graceful?"

What was he saying? This one was fine. He could escape. Whatever she offered him next, he should take and run.

But a moment later, Carl was glad that he had stayed. The salesgirl handed him a horn-handled razor in tones of gray and cream. Clean lines with just a hint of a flare at the ends, the only embellishment the swirl of the natural horn. It was Shirley's razor.

"Perfect!" Carl beamed, winning an answering grin from Lipstick.

"Shall I wrap it for you?"

"Please."

She returned in moments with a parcel as red as her smile.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked. "We have lots of lovely things in the ladies' department if you're looking for a gift for someone special . . ."

The instinct to run was very strong, but Carl plastered on a pleasant expression. "Thanks, but no. No one special."

*/*/*/*/*

On a bench across the street, Carl turned the cheerful parcel over in his hands.

It was just what he had wanted. But all the joy had run out of the joke now. He knew he would never see this razor without being reminded of this moment, and of his shame.

When he was a kid, Carl had been afraid of hanging. Of one spectacular punishment for his spectacular sin. But that wasn't the way of the modern world, was it? Someone had decided it was too cruel.

Instead, they killed with a thousand tiny cuts and never even realized that they were doing anything. Lipstick in there was probably congratulating herself on a sale well made. She had been perfectly sweet and professional, and didn't know that she had ruined the day and the joke and the gift.

No, she hadn't. That was the cruelest cut of all. Carl had done it himself. Censored, lied, denied Shirley how many times? He hadn't even given the salesgirl the opportunity to be disgusted with him; he'd done all the dirty work for her.

Nauseated, Carl rose from the bench and walked down the street to a church on the corner. Without hesitation, he shoved the red package through the slot for donations to the poor, and turned toward the train station, empty-handed.

* * *

Shirley strapped the last crate into the cargo bay of the Curtiss HS-2L and checked his watch. Mr. Horton should be here in about an hour; there was plenty of time to pack his own overnight bag.

Back up in the apartment, Shirley changed out of his coveralls and into flying clothes — thick pants, sweater, wool socks — and packed an extra day's items into his rucksack. The sound of a car in the drive and a knock at the door surprised him; Mr. Horton wasn't due yet.

It was not Mr. Horton, but Susan, smiling and holding a tin that promised cookies.

"Monkey-faces," she said, by way of explanation. "For Di."

"I'll see that she gets them," Shirley said with mock gravity.

"And do ask whether she's coming home for Christmas. We hardly ever see her anymore."

Shirley tucked the tin into his rucksack on top of his clothes, pulling the drawstring tight over it. "She's busy at the hospital. Mothers and babies never take a holiday."

"Goodness, I know that well enough by now. As if the phone doesn't ring in the dead of night at least twice a week. But you might tell her that there's no sense running herself into the ground with overwork."

"I'll pass that along," Shirley promised.

"Oh! That reminds me. Be sure to tell Carl congratulations from me."

Shirley frowned. "Congratulations?"

"On his article being published. Rosemary was all of a dither telling me about it this morning. I didn't understand half of what she was saying, but I was led to understand that it is an important paper and will be published in an important journal and that everyone is very pleased and proud. As am I."

Shirley felt as if he had missed a step going down stairs. She must be talking about Carl's article on the importance of federally-recognized sanctuaries for migratory birds. He'd worked on it all spring and sent it off for review in the summer, but hadn't heard back. Until now, evidently.

"Sure," Shirley said, covering his confusion. "Thanks. I'll tell him next time I see him."

"And I'm making up the menu for Christmas. I'm using vegetable stock for the soup and shortening instead of lard for the pastry so he can eat the pies as well."

Shirley pushed his own scattered feelings aside and gave her the smile she deserved. Really, Susan had been a brick this past year. All she wanted was his happiness, and he had to give it to her.

"Thanks, Susan. I know he'll appreciate that."

A honk from outside called Susan back to the door. "Must run. Jem's off to check on Mr. Meade and he's to deliver me to Cousin Sophia's on the way. I just wanted to wish you safe flight."

She gave Shirley a peck on the cheek and disappeared through the door, calling admonitions to Jem for his impatience.

When she had gone, Shirley stood quite still. Carl's article was good news, wasn't it? So why did it rankle? He recalled a letter he had received during the War, in which Carl had complained of hearing news of him from Una, rather than directly from Shirley himself. He had thought Carl over-sensitive then, but had a bit more sympathy now. To get news of Carl from Susan? It didn't feel right, somehow. But then, when would he have had a chance to hear it directly? When was the last time he had seen Carl anyway? Last Friday? No, that was the day he had gone up to St. Pierre. Maybe Wednesday?

Shirley crossed the room to the telephone and lifted the receiver. They did not call often; what could you say on an open party line? But there was a ratcheting tightness rising in his throat that did not fully dissolve even when the receiver at the other end clicked.

"Hello! Carl Meredith speaking."

Shirley swallowed, realizing that he had not thought at all about what he might say. He paused overlong until Carl called, "Hello? Anyone there?"

"It's me."

"Oh! Hi. How are you?"

 _Great. I'm great. Everything's great._

"Fine. I just wanted to call to say congratulations. On your article."

Carl's voice brightened, his smile audible. "Thanks! I just got word from the editor yesterday."

"That's what Susan said."

"Susan?"

"I guess she heard from Rosemary."

"Oh. Right. I was over at the manse last night, right after I got the letter."

"Right."

That's all it was, he had been out late. Probably lost track of time explaining the article to his father, getting into the minutia of it all, and then went straight home to bed.

"You should come over for supper tonight," Carl said. "We'll celebrate."

Shirley grimaced but kept his voice light. "Can't. Sorry. I'm flying a client down to Kingsport in half an hour."

"Oh."

"Can I come tomorrow?"

"I'm leaving in the morning for Cape Breton," Carl said, subdued. "I won't be back til Saturday."

"Oh."

There was a long pause, the sort that was good for reading an expression or reaching out across a space to touch. But of course this was the telephone, and they were like _ships that pass in the night_.*****

"You're staying with Di in Kingsport?" Carl asked eventually.

"Just for the night."

"Shirley?" He sounded small and far away.

"Yeah?"

"Be careful, alright?"

"I always am."

"I know," Carl said, though he did not seem reassured. "You'll come to supper on Saturday?"

"Alright."

"I'll tell Una."

"See you then."

"Safe trip."

"You, too."

*/*/*/*/*

In Kingsport, Shirley saw Mr. Horton safely into a cab before he called one for himself.

"Staying awhile, are you?" asked the driver as Shirley loaded two crates, his rucksack, and a large suitcase into the back.

"Visiting my sister," Shirley said with studied lightness.

He gave the driver the address, not reacting to the man's look of skepticism. They rattled up the hill from the harbor, through the Hydrostone neighborhood with its finished homes and shops and offices. Shirley had made this journey often, never without thinking about the first time he had ridden up this street in a jolting, loaded wagon, joyful even in the still-singed ruins of the blasted city. If he hadn't used up all his wishes already, he would have returned to that day in a never-ending loop.

The cab pulled to a halt in front of a restaurant sleeping through the lull between the mid-day meal and the supper rush.

"Sure this the right address?"

"Yep. Thanks," Shirley said, handing over a tip generous enough to forestall any further questions. The cab driver got the message and was only too pleased to skedaddle as soon as he had helped Shirley deposit his luggage in front of Mrs. Howard's door.

"Well, will you look at what the cat dragged in!" said Mrs. Howard, stepping around her bar to take Shirley's hand in a grip that had some steel under its softness.

"Good to see you, ma'am."

She stepped back to look him over critically. "I was starting to wonder where you'd gone. Everything alright over on your island?"

Shirley shrugged. "Fine. Busy."

She nodded politely, but that was enough small talk for both of them. After all, this was a business transaction, and not one that would keep indefinitely. Mrs. Howard hefted the crate easily, careful not to jostle it, and led a laden Shirley through to the kitchen.

"What do you have for me today?" Mrs. Howard asked when they had deposited their cargo on the prep table.

"You said the cognac did well last time," Shirley said, prying open one of the crates. "The other is champagne. I couldn't find much in St. Pierre; you're lucky I got any at all."

Mrs. Howard lifted a cool, dark bottle out of the sawdust and hay cushioning it. By the way she caressed it, Shirley felt confident he could get a good price. It wasn't so difficult for people to get their hands on beer or raw whiskey, but the little French islands up by Newfoundland were doing a roaring trade in fine European liquor. It was no trouble for him to fly over and back in a day. Flying lessons and bird's-eye tours were well and good, but they wouldn't buy him the land-based trainer he needed to teach novice pilots on something more congenial than the cumbersome HS-2L. He loved the old bird, but it was a pain in the ass to haul it in and out of the water, even with the truck.

"And this?" Mrs. Howard asked, eyeing the suitcase.

"A bit of this and a bit of that," Shirley said, popping it open. "See what your customers like and I'll get you more of it."

Mrs. Howard examined an umber bottle of Cointreau. "I don't know. People like what they already like."

"Well, I think they'll like this."

Shirley had no doubt that Mrs. Howard would take the lot, but they still had to perform this little ritual. "How about you take that bottle as a gift," he said.

Now came the part where she smiled and patted him on the cheek and took two glasses down from the shelf to toast a deal. They would haggle a bit more, but in the end they would both walk away satisfied. And in a month or two they'd do it all again.

*/*/*/*/*

"Thank Susan for the monkey-faces," Di said, reaching for another. "I never got the knack of making them exactly like hers."

"Ah, well, you were sabotaged," Shirley said, running a broad thumb over the Ladies of Llangollen as they strolled down the curve of his teacup.

"Sabotaged?"

Di squinted at Shirley over the Aster House dining table, her bobbed copper curls glowing in the light of the gas lamps. Shirley had tried to convince her and Sylvia to convert Aster House to electricity, but both averred that they got plenty of electric light at the hospital, thank you very much. The lamps did give the place a cozy air, especially in this season, when the cold began to press up against the windows like an insistent cat pawing to be let in. Tonight, the warm circle of light reminded Shirley of the Sundays they had spent here as a foursome, Sylvia regaling them with the endless, baffling ways patients found to injure themselves, Carl giving his updates on the roseate terns, Di trying out one vegetarian recipe after another. She wasn't a bad cook. It wasn't her fault her monkey-faces were never quite right.

Sylvia chuckled, reaching for another cookie. "What intrigue! Is there a dark secret behind the famous baked goods of Ingleside?"

"There is," Shirley said, smiling enigmatically into his cup.

"Well, out with it!" Di demanded.

Shirley paused as if deciding whether to reveal a terrible truth. "The secret to the famous baked goods of Ingleside," he said slowly, "is Rollings Reliable Baking Powder."

Sylvia cackled and Di slapped the table, setting the Ladies of Llangollen ringing against one another.

"It is not!" she declared. "Mother won't have the stuff in the house."

"'Course not," Shirley agreed with a barely straight face. "That's why Susan keeps it in an unmarked tin in the pantry."

"You're lying!"

"Am I?" Shirley asked, lips quivering with the effort of suppressing his mirth. "Tell me, you and Mum and Nan and Rilla, you can all bake pretty well, as long as it's pies and shortbread and things that don't need to rise much, right? But what about lighter things? Silver-and-gold cake? Cream puffs? They never came out _quite_ right, did they?"******

Di pressed a palm over her open mouth as Sylvia dissolved into a helpless puddle of heaving laughter beside her.

"Baking powder?" Di said, eyes wide in not-quite-mock horror.

"Mum always did insist on buying the inferior stuff," Shirley shrugged. "So Susan let you all use it. But when it came down to business, there was no way she'd let Mum's prejudice tie her hands."

Shaking her head, Di nicked the half-eaten cookie from Sylvia's plate and held it up for inspection. She took a cautious bite, rolling the crumbs across her tongue.

"I never thought about it," she said. "I always just buy the stuff in the blue can because that's what we always used at home!"

"What _you_ always used at home."

Di threw the last bite of cookie across the table at her brother. "Treachery!"

Shirley ducked, grinning as Di joined Sylvia in laughter.

When the trio had laughed themselves to tears and back again, Sylvia pushed back from the table.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, clutching at her side as she caught her breath. "Oh! That's enough for me tonight, I think. I've gone loopy."

"Leave the dishes," Di said as Sylvia stood and stretched. "I'll take care of them before I come up."

Sylvia bent to give Di a kiss goodnight, breaking off early as a residual snigger escaped her lips.

"Don't keep her up too late," she admonished Shirley on her way to the door. "We've both got the early shift tomorrow."

When Sylvia had disappeared up the stairs, still audibly repeating _baking powder_ to herself, Shirley slipped into the sitting room for a moment, returning with the bottle of cognac he had kept back as a gift for Di. Both Blythes polished off the dregs of their tea, replacing it with generous pours of the best St. Pierre could offer.

"Still running rum, then?" Di asked, unsurprised.

"It's hardly rum," Shirley said, as if the bottle might take offense.

Di sipped appreciatively. "Why do you do it? You don't have to."

Shirley frowned down at the golden liquid in his cup. The easy answer was that the money was good. Easier to explain than the exhilarating frisson of fear that came with flying over the dry provinces with a load of contraband. Certainly easier to explain than the way that seeing Mrs. Howard from time to time reassured him that he hadn't just imagined the other life, fast receding into the mists.

"I need another plane," he said.

"Business is going alright, then?"

Shirley drained his cup. "It's fine. I had more clients this year than last. Word spreads."

"And the rest of it?"

Her eyes were green and sharp, like their mother's when she was cutting up a poem, exposing its guts. Incisive. Shirley had tried to beg off discussing "The Waste Land," complaining truthfully that all the references and polyglot lines had flown over his head. But his mother had kept on looking, prompting, prodding, and before he knew it, Shirley was listing all the ways that Eliot echoed Whitman's "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" in his structure and his flowers and his hermit-thrushes, and a glimmer of triumph flashed in the green eyes. Now Di would find him out as well, though he did not mean to hide from her.

"It's harder than I thought it would be," Shirley admitted.

"Is anyone giving you a hard time?"

"No," Shirley clicked his tongue and reached for the bottle again. "Not really. I told Susan, you know. She was . . . surprised. But she's been great ever since."

"She did once resolve to be a heroine," Di smirked.

Shirley's face twitched, giving Di the brief shape of a smile, though he didn't really feel it.

"What's wrong, love?" Di asked, reaching across the table for his hand.

There were easy answers and hard answers, and the one he knew he could never say the way Eliot had said it in "The Waste Land":

 _Here is no water but only rock  
_ _Rock and no water and the sandy road . . .  
_ _If there were water  
_ _And no rock  
_ _If there were rock  
_ _And also water  
_ _And water  
_ _A spring  
_ _A pool among the rock  
_ _If there were the sound of water only  
_ _Not the cicada  
_ _And dry grass singing  
_ _But sound of water over a rock  
_ _Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees  
_ _Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop  
_ _But there is no water_

Di had not lifted her searching gaze, and Shirley groped for words to answer her.

"I always worried about fighting off outside dangers," he said. "I never realized we could fall apart from the inside."

Di drew her breath in through her nose, but spoke gently. "Are you? Falling apart?"

"Maybe. A little. I don't know." It seemed a terrible thing to admit aloud, as if saying it made it more true.

The pressure of Di's hand on his was steady and strong, and Shirley reflected that his sister had brought many people through peril.

"Do you want advice or sympathy?" she asked.

"Little of both?"

"Alright, here's the advice," Di said, shaking back her red curls. "What you have with Carl is worth fighting for. You're strong: if you can't find a way, you'll make one." She smiled, or at least her face rearranged into an expression of tenderness. "But you also need to live your own life, not martyr yourself. You have to be honest and decide whether you can bear to go on living in Four Winds. I know I couldn't."

Shirley chewed his lip, blinking back a burning sensation in his eyes.

"And the sympathy?" he asked.

Di squeezed his hand anew. "You'll always have a place here if you want it. Both of you. You alone. You and someone else. You're always welcome."

The burning intensified, but did not spill over. "You don't mind if I stay a few days, do you? Now?"

"Not at all," Di said. "Make yourself at home."

"Just til Saturday, maybe?"

"As long as you like, Shirley."

* * *

Notes:

*Not a direct quotation, but paraphrased from Josephine Wood Smith's instructions in _A Manual for Altar Guilds with Suggestions for Altar Linen_ (1915)

**As far as I can discover, Advent wreaths as we know them were first used in North America in the 1930s.

***Psalm 26:8

****Luke 12:34; Matthew 6:21

*****Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Tales of a Wayside Inn_ (1874)

******In Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 17 ("The Weeks Wear By"), Rilla suspects Susan of tampering with her cream puffs to maintain supremacy as "past mistress in the art."


	21. Proposals

Content warning: homophobia, strong language

* * *

 **Proposals**

* * *

May 1926

* * *

Una paused on the bottom stair, balancing the washbasin against the turned-oak newel. Rosemary had fallen asleep at last and Una meant to replace the towels and washwater while she had the chance. She hoped Rosemary would finally sleep through the night tonight. The fever had broken that evening and Dr. Blythe had said that all she needed now was rest and tender nursing. Of course, Una would be happy to stay at the manse another day or two. She had already phoned Mrs. Palmer to say that she wouldn't be in on Sunday to tend the altar, and that no, Rosemary was in no danger and no need to send Father Kirkland around, thanks be.

Una thought that Dr. Blythe had gone home an hour ago and was thus surprised to hear his voice coming from the study, followed closely by Father's urgent half-whisper.

" . . . afraid so."

"But he didn't tell you himself?" That was Father, his voice sounding thin and strained.

"No. Nothing like that," Dr. Blythe said. "Only . . . Anne has suspected for a while now, and I've been watching them. I'm quite certain she's right."

Una might have moved along then, not wanting to breach whatever confidential discussion might involve a doctor and a minister, if not for Father's anguished question.

"Are you sure? Carl?"

Una nearly upset the washbasin.

Not trusting her hands to remain steady, Una set the basin on the stair and took a single step toward the study door _as noiselessly as a little gray mouse_.*

"Yes, I'm sure," Dr. Blythe replied. "I haven't seen anything . . . incriminating. Not exactly. But . . ."

"They're friends . . ." Father protested, but trailed off.

Dr. Blythe's voice was solemn, but gentle, as if he spoke of a death. "I'm sorry, John. I knew I had to tell you."

Father took a long, shuddering breath and Una had to stop herself from going to him.

"They'll grow out of it, surely. Only a passing phase."

Dr. Blythe cleared his throat. "Anne thinks it goes back to Redmond. Maybe even before."

"Can we stop them?" Father asked in broken, anguished tones.

"I don't see how."

"Isn't there any sort of treatment? A cure?"

Dr. Blythe's voice turned graver still. "I've done some research these past few months. And there are . . . certain experimental procedures. But that's grim stuff, John. I'd never recommended . . . not to anyone . . ."

"I'm sure I've heard of gentle options," Father said. "Hypnosis? Psychoanalysis?"

"Perhaps," Dr. Blythe said vaguely. "I'm following a few leads in the literature. But my understanding is that the available treatments are unreliable. That some of them, well . . ."

Dr. Blythe hesitated and Una strained to hear.

"Just tell me, Gil. We can dispense with euphemism at this point."

A pause, and then Dr. Blythe cleared his throat. "Any sort of manipulation, whether it be psychological, medical, or . . . well . . . _surgical_ . . . is risky. I have a few leads on promising cures, but there are also plenty of reports of . . . damage."

"Damage?"

"Insanity. Suicide." Dr. Blythe had gone so quiet Una could barely discern his words, but he went on speaking. "The boys have already been through so much, John. They may be fragile, especially Carl. Anne doesn't want me to try anything at all. But I know there must be some way to help."

"They could go to prison," Father said softly. "For life."

"We won't let that happen."

"Do you think we might convince them to try to live normal lives? Get married? Start families?"

Dr. Blythe coughed. "Would you really do that to an unsuspecting woman, John?"

"They're good boys. I remember thinking when Carl enlisted _what a bonny, clean, handsome lad he was_.** They'd make better husbands than most."

There was another long pause. "You know it would be Una, don't you?" Dr. Blythe said evenly. "Not some nameless, faceless girl. Shirley would marry Una."

When John Meredith managed to answer, he sounded faint. "You're right. Forgive me for even suggesting it."

"You're just trying to help, John. And it's nothing I haven't thought myself. But things are bad enough. We can't drag anyone else into this mess. Especially not someone innocent."

"Of course not. You're right. I'm sorry."

Una had heard enough. She padded silently back toward the stairs and carried the soiled basin into the kitchen. She watched the wastewater swirl away down the drain, thinking hard.

Father couldn't do anything, nor could Dr. Blythe.

But Una could.

* * *

"No. Absolutely not!"

"But Carl," Una pleaded, "it would solve so many problems!"

"I said _no_!"

They sat at the enamel-top table in the sunny sanctum of the kitchen on the Lowbridge road, facing one another over cups of rapidly-cooling tea.

Una straightened her back and resolved not to give in without making her point clear. "Just think, Carl," she said. "Shirley could live here always. He wouldn't have to go back out to the airfield alone and no one would be able to say a word about it."

Carl shook his head emphatically. "No. It wouldn't solve anything. And it would create new problems."

How could she make him see? If Father and Dr. Blythe were preparing to get involved, there was no telling what sort of plan they might devise. Couldn't Carl see that things would be better this way?

"We wouldn't . . ." Una faltered, color rising in her cheeks. But she had thought through her plan in every particular, and she meant to show that the offer was no ill-considered whim. "We wouldn't have to . . . really . . . _be_ _married_."

Carl caught her drift and blanched. " _Christ_ , Una."

She pressed her lips together, but did not scold him for irreverence. "We wouldn't," she said with finality. "But you could be safer. You could be together."

Carl dropped his head into his hands, elbows propped either side of his teacup. "Look, Una, I appreciate what you're trying to do. Really, I do. But even if it would work — and it wouldn't — you can't swear false vows. Stand up before God and lie? No."

"I rather think that's between me and God," Una said quietly.

"Well, this is between me and you. And I say no."

"And Shirley? Shouldn't he get a say?"

Carl fixed his sister with his clear blue eye, no trace of amusement there, not even deep, deep down. "No, Una. Don't even mention this to him."

"But it could work."

"No!" Carl cried, losing patience now. "It wouldn't be fair to any of us! Not to Shirley. Not to me. Definitely not to you." He pushed back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest, though whether he was creating a barrier between them or holding himself together, Una could not have said.

"You needn't worry about being fair to me," she replied.

"No? What happens when you fall in love?" Carl demanded. "When you want to get married for real and not as a sham? I couldn't steal that chance from you, not even if I thought this was a good idea. Which it isn't."

Una looked down into her teacup, swirling dregs floating formless and unreadable. "I'm never going to marry," she whispered.

"Don't say that." Carl softened, arms unclenching, anger running off to puddle in the downcast corners of his mouth. "There's someone out there for you, Una."

"There isn't."

Carl shook his head, as if a performance of conviction were the same as persuasion. "I don't believe that. Not a bit. Maybe it seems impossible, but your happiness is still ahead of you."

"I am happy," Una said, though the declaration went no deeper than her words. "I have St. Elizabeth's. And I have you. That's enough."

"It isn't."

Una stood up from the table more precipitously than was her wont. It was not like her to rattle teacups in their saucers, nor to permit a sob to escape, even when she had turned her face toward the wall.

Carl rose as well and closed the distance between them in a single silent step. He pulled Una into an embrace and hung on for a few moments of wordless misery, not much lessened by the sharing.

"I want joy for you, Una," he said into her dark hair.

"And I want it for you," came the reply, muffled by Carl's shoulder.

"You've done so much already," he said. "I can't let you give anything more."

Una pulled away enough to wipe her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I think Shirley deserves the chance to hear me out," she said. "He's practical."

Carl's grasp on her tightened momentarily, a desperate spasm, not a caress. Una could not see his tears, turned blind side toward her as he was, but she could feel them as he spoke.

"No, Una, please. Please don't. It makes sense; I know it does. But . . . please. Don't ask Shirley to marry you. I . . . I couldn't bear it. Please."

* * *

Shirley was elbow-deep in engine grease when the midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom slithered into the drive. He knew most of the autos on the eastern tip of the Island — the delivery trucks and Ford Model Ts and even a few Cadillacs like his father's V-63. Nothing like this, though. Shirley cast an appreciative eye over the sleek chassis, the gleaming chrome appointments, the audacious Spirit of Ecstasy poised in perpetual flight on the bonnet. Not an Islander, that was for sure. Maybe the summer renters were starting to bring their autos over with them.

 _Susan will love that._

Shirley wiped his hands on the rag in his cover-all pocket as the Rolls slowed to a stop. The driver was obscured by the dazzling reflection of midday sun on its windshield, but Shirley assumed it would be someone worth cleaning up for. The Yankees with cottages down the shore were some of his best customers, willing to pay top dollar for tours and simple flying lessons. Besides, anyone who drove that stunning machine might have a thing or two to say about engines.

The driver emerged in his own sweet time. Tall, expensively dressed, with the lithe stride of a tropical cat. Not an Islander either. Shirley squinted as the man removed his sunglasses, then felt the bottom fall out of his stomach.

 _Wilkie_.

"Hello there, _philos_ ," Wilkie said, the old, sly grin stretching his gaunt features.

Shirley stared. Wilkie was thinner. Older than he should have been, with flecks of gray in the dark, pomaded curls. It had only been four years since the day he'd come to say goodbye, _au revoir_ , _auf wiedershehen_ , at the start of his truncated grand tour. Could that possibly be right?

Shirley wanted to say, _You're alive. You came back. It's a miracle._

Instead he asked, "What are you doing here?"

The question was too sharp and Shirley winced at his own tone. Wilkie, however, was undeterred.

"Came for you, didn't I?"

"How did you find me?" Shirley asked more neutrally, still unable to settle on a register that could corral his scattered impulses.

Wilkie reached into his pocket and fanned out three or four tattered envelopes. "You wrote."

"You didn't."

Wilkie closed the gap between them and leaned against the plane, too close, making Shirley recall their first meeting: the tree on the quad, the invitation, the touch of Wilkie's knee, uninvited, against his own.

"Ah, well, not much to write home about, I'm afraid."

At this distance, Shirley registered the subtler changes in his face. Eyes outlined in a rim of shadow, skin weathered by sun and tobacco, cheeks sunken like shell craters under superficially regrown grass. But still Wilkie, still that magnetic smile, the spark of challenge in the amber eyes.

Wilkie slapped the creased, finger-stained envelopes against Shirley's forearm with every pretense of joviality. "Not like you! Big news! Back to Glen St. Mary! Could have knocked me over with a feather when I read that. You'll forgive me if I ask _why_."

"You know why."

Wilkie rolled his eyes melodramatically.

Shirley nodded toward the Rolls Royce. "It seems that your family took you back."

"Oh, that." Wilkie waved dismissively. "Nah. They disowned me. There were lawyers and everything. The deal is that I renounce my claim to any inheritance in return for a fat deposit in my name in a Swiss bank account. And, of course, the stipulation that I disappear forever. That way, they can just forget that I exist."

"I'm sorry."

"For me? Don't bother. Be sorry for my brother. He has to stick around and marry whatever pug-faced heiress my mother has sunk her talons into. I'm pleased to be shut of them and on my way to new adventures."

"And you're just dropping by for a visit, are you?" Shirley asked, carefully casual.

"I'm here because I have a proposition for you, fly boy."

 _I'll bet._

Shirley crossed his arms over his chest and waited, striving for indifference.

"My father always did hope the Huns would spare him the trouble of having to deal with me," Wilkie smirked, "and I mean to see that they do. I'm still headed to Berlin. Come with me."

Shirley scoffed. "To Berlin?"

"I'm not kidding."

"You certainly are."

Shirley began to turn away, but Wilkie reached out and caught him by the wrist. "I'm not. Come with me. Leave the boondocks behind and come live a little."

Shirley shifted away from Wilkie's hand, not recoiling, but moving away nonetheless. "I think you're forgetting something."

"What?"

"Carl?"

"You mean Carl the cop?"

"He's not a cop," Shirley flared up hot, then checked himself. _Where had that come from?_ "He manages wildlife," he said, approximating calm.

Wilkie lolled against the fuselage. "Blaaaaggghhhh. Well, bring him along if you must. Berlin's a nonstop party — dancing til dawn, drag shows, masquerades — Meredith will love it."

"Doubtful."

"Well then leave him here and come with me." Wilkie reached out and stroked Shirley's cheek with the back of his hand. "You're wasted here."

With a tremendous effort, Shirley took a step backward. Three steps would have been better. But he managed one.

Wilkie threw up his hands in frustration. "God! You're maddening, you know that? The two of you. You're the most domesticated queers on the planet. Out here in the sticks, squandering your lives playing hide-and-seek with the church ladies! And what does it get you? Are you happy? Living out here on the edge of nowhere like a fuckin' leper? Alone, I presume? Look me in the face, Shirley, and tell me you're completely, unreservedly happy here."

An impossible command. He couldn't and Wilkie knew it.

"Well, I'm not in prison," Shirley said curtly.

"Fuck you."

"Getting less likely every minute."

Wilkie let out a bark of laughter that ended in a derisive growl. "You think you're smarter than I am? That I deserved what I got? Fuck you, Shirley. You think you can protect yourself by acting all respectable. That maybe if you just stay quiet enough and duck your head enough you can keep yourself safe. That you can keep _Carl_ safe. Well you can't. All it takes is one misstep — one indiscreet moment or one person you piss off enough that he goes blabbing all around town."

"Like you?"

Shirley saw the shoulders shift, knew that Wilkie might throw a punch at any minute. It did not worry him overmuch; he was fairly confident that he could take Wilkie in a fight. Especially Wilkie in this mood: wild, erratic, emotional. Shirley only hoped that he was not too far gone that way himself.

"Why did you come here, Wilkie?"

"Like I said. I came here for you. To offer you a hand out of this halcyon hellhole. Meredith too, if he wants it; I don't care. Let's go. All of us. Away from here. Somewhere where you wouldn't have to sneak around. Somewhere where you could actually live out in the sunshine instead of scraping by in the shadows."

"Sounds nice. If you ever find it, do be sure to send me a postcard."

Wilkie squinted. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were scared."

"Pfffft."

"You are." Wilkie took a step forward and Shirley shied. "You're _scared_. The unflappable Flight Commander Shirley Blythe, RAF, DFC with bells and whistles. _Scared_."

An unfamiliar pressure built in Shirley's chest, a ratcheting tightness that scorched upward into his throat, threatening to escape as tears or fists or volume or any of those other things that burst out of people when they were not entirely in command of themselves. It was distinctly uncomfortable.

Shirley rounded on Wilkie with a blistering look that would have cowed anyone who had anything to lose. "Of course I'm scared, idiot!" he growled. "Anyone would be. Scared people come back alive. It's brave sons of bitches like you that go down in flames."

Wilkie stood his ground and spat. "Keep telling yourself that. I never thought you were stupid. But if you could come through the War believing that you could keep yourself safe by doing the right thing or acting the right way, you're jingle-brained."

"And alive."

"Are you seriously telling me that you — _you_ — are going to spend the rest of your life _here_? With _Carl Meredith_? For God's sake, _why_?"

Vibrating with the effort of it, Shirley pushed his anger down, swallowed it, dampened the live coals. "Someday, Wilkie, you'll actually love someone. And then you won't need an explanation."

Wilkie sneered. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Fine. Great. Thanks for the visit, asshole."

Instead of stepping back, Wilkie stepped forward. There could be no hiding the fury, the desperation, and the desire in his eyes, not in total darkness, and certainly not here, in the blazing midday sun, in the open expanse of the unshielded drive.

"Shirley. Come with me."

When it came, the kiss was softer than Shirley had expected. He thought that anything from Wilkie must be as he was: volatile, acerbic, dangerous. As it transpired, only the last was true.

Shirley had imagined Wilkie's lips often enough. Too often, in truth, but that had seemed safe when he was behind bars in another country. Now, with his hands pulling Shirley in by the hips and his tongue searching as Shirley opened to him, it wasn't safe at all.

Wilkie tasted of coffee and cigarette smoke and places far, far away. At first sip, he was astonishing; at second, intoxicating. Over the years, Shirley had pushed him away and away again, but now he pulled him closer, one hand at his throat and another in the dark waves of his hair. Pressed together like this, thigh to thigh and chest to chest, they fit like gloved hands, moving in unison to the same commands of muscle and sinew. They had clashed so many times; now, aligned at last, they meshed.

For the briefest of moments, Shirley glimpsed a brazen flash of supernova, scorching spectacularly against the void before collapsing into itself, darker than dark, emptier than empty.

 _. . . to court destruction with taunts, with invitations . . ._

Panting, Shirley pulled back, but Wilkie had him by the coveralls, warm breath and sandalwood inescapable as they stood eye-to-eye.

"Shirley," Wilkie said, like another kiss. "You and me. Together. We could be great."

Looking back into the amber eyes, Shirley allowed himself one honest appraisal of the man who had seen everyone at Redmond and had made a place for them all in the half-light, who had survived God only knew what in prison, who, whatever else he might be, was a brother-officer and a friend. More than a friend. _Philos_.

"You don't need me to be great," Shirley said.

Wilkie's throat bobbed wretchedly. "Please."

"No."

It was barely a whisper, but it was final.

Wilkie backed away, stumbling so that the red dirt of the drive mussed his crisp black trousers. He blinked hard. "Fine," he croaked. "Well, don't come crying to me when you change your mind."

"Wilkie . . ."

"I'll do fine in Berlin without you."

"Wilkie . . ."

Wilkie had reached the auto, gripping the door with pale and bulging knuckles. He risked one last look back.

Shirley swallowed. " . . . take care of yourself."

Wilkie snorted. "Say hi to Meredith for me," he sneered, disappearing behind the sun-dazzled windshield.

Shirley stood perfectly still as the Rolls-Royce revved up and pulled out. Much too fast. Careening toward the road, it left parallel skidding divots and raised a cloud of red Island dust, intangible, temporary, like that fleeting feeling of choking pressure, not yet settled back to earth.

* * *

Notes:

* _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 33: "Carl is — Not — Whipped" It's not the first time Una has eavesdropped in that study.

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 17: "The Weeks Wear By"


	22. Unable to Love

Content warning: homophobia, quotations from medical texts

Thanks for all the comments on last chapter (especially guests). I was so glad to see some conflicted feelings about Wilkie.

* * *

 **Unable to Love**

* * *

May 1926

* * *

Shirley was not certain why he had been summoned to Ingleside. It wasn't that he minded, especially not on these dank evenings when spring seemed to be stuttering in reverse. He didn't mind fending for himself, not really. But nothing he cooked for himself was ever exactly the way Susan made it.

No Susan tonight, though. Her widowed sister-in-law was ill in Charlottetown, and Susan had gone to tend her for the week, bringing with her a basketful of remedies that had raised the eyebrows of several Doctors Blythe.

Jem was out as well, called to the fishing village to ease old Aggie Russell into the world to come. That left Shirley with his parents, Faith, and the little Blythes, who needed next to no prompting to tell Uncle Shirley all their little adventures. One of the neighborhood cats had recently had kittens under the veranda and Faith had promised that Wally could keep one, though he hadn't yet decided between the tabby and the calico. Sam had discovered his Uncle Walter's old study platform up in the apple tree that looked into Sam's bedroom window and extracted a promise that Uncle Shirley would help him repair it for daily use.* Jemmy gabbled along happily, no doubt describing events of great consequence in her little world, to which Shirley paid duly earnest attention.

After dinner, when goodnights had been said all around and Faith had herded her littles upstairs for the next installment of _Treasure Island_ , Shirley's father turned to him with a grave expression.

"Shirley, will you come into the library for a moment? There is something your mother and I wish to discuss with you."

Shirley was instantly wary. The library was not a place for pleasant chats. He had not been punished often in his childhood, having been shielded by Susan's righteous indignation in all but the most flagrant offenses, but there had been a few memorable scoldings, all of them delivered over the massive mahogany desk, witnessed by the shelves of sacred ledgers. How strange to be summoned there again, as if he were still six years old and had offended Mrs. Elder Clow by obstinately refusing to answer her questions at dinner.

Unsure what to expect other than discomfort, Shirley settled himself into one of the leather armchairs facing the desk. Despite the gloom outside, the room was warm, with a robust fire dancing in the hearth. A single blue-covered book lay on the blotter, reminding Shirley of the day when he had spilled lilacs over one of the medical ledgers and Una had glimpsed his fear. But that was a long time ago, and he was no longer a child.

His parents did not sit, which Shirley took as a bad sign. Instead, his mother stood awkwardly by the side of the desk, hovering in an unsettled and unsettling manner while his father perched on the edge with such a transparent imitation of casual ease that it was unclear why he bothered.

"Shirley."

"Dad."

His father took a deep breath. "Son, we, that is, your mother and I, we have something very important, that is to say, very _delicate_ to discuss with you."

What was all this? Shirley couldn't remember ever having seen his father flustered into dithering verbiage. He had a lifetime of experience delivering bad news; it wasn't like him to trip over his own tongue. Shirley had an inkling of where this might be headed, but wasn't keen on volunteering to participate.

"You may not be surprised to learn that we have known, that is to say, that we have _suspected_ , for some time that there may be a reason that you have never shown any particular interest in settling down. That is to say, in getting married."

 _Oh, good._

Shirley turned inquiring eyes to his mother, who looked resolutely at his father, not at him. He did not think that he was imagining the rosy blotches streaking her pale cheeks.

His father paused, as if allowing space for Shirley to fill, but any hopes in that vein went sorely unrealized. As far as Shirley was concerned, his father could talk until he ran short of either breath or nerve, but he would get no help from this quarter.

"I've been doing some reading," his father continued, tapping the blue book with all five fingers as he spoke. "Quite a lot of reading, actually. And I think this book explains things well. It's succinct. Scientific. And sympathetic."

Wordlessly, Shirley held out his hand for the volume. The cloth binding bore no title, the very subject concealed behind a demure and silent cover. He let the book fall open in his hand to reveal the title page: _The Homosexual Neurosis_ by Dr. William Stekel ( _for sale only to Members of the Medical Profession_ ).**

Scanning the table of contents, Shirley let out a low whistle.

 _The Narcissism of the Homosexual_

 _The Neurotic's Inability to Love_

 _Homosexuality and Sadism_

 _The Social Causes of Homosexuality_

 _Attachment to the Mother_

 _Various Therapeutic Measures_

 _The Path Towards Cure and the Conditions for Recovery_

"Dr. Stekel explains . . ."

Shirley held up a still hand to silence his father and turned the pages gingerly. He skimmed a few paragraphs that would have made him angry if he had let them. Instead, he deployed a stony indifference, letting the words pass under his eyes without being absorbed.

 _"The question rises whether he is at all capable of loving. One may point out that in a certain sense he does love his mother, father, some friend or that perhaps he even has a 'sweetheart.' But it only seems that he loves them! The truth is that he is unable to love."_

Shirley let the words skim over the surface of his mind like skaters on an icy pond, gliding steel-bladed across a frozen barrier thick enough to protect the hidden life below.

Flipping the pages, Shirley saw that Stekel's text alternated between these grim pronouncements and explicit sexual histories of the good doctor's patients. Very explicit.

" _. . . he reveled in the thought of permitting himself to be besprinkled with the spermatic fluid by his beloved male friend; he had a craving membrum erectum amati viri fellare . . ._ "

"You read this?" Shirley asked, his brows ascending to a lofty height. "Both of you?"

Every visible inch of his mother's skin was a livid scarlet. "Yes. Well, Dr. Stekel makes many informative observations . . ."

"He certainly does," Shirley muttered, tossing the volume carelessly back onto the desk. "Usually you have to buy a fella a drink if you want to hear that sort of talk."

"Shirley!" his father exclaimed. "You will not speak that way in front of your mother!"

If Shirley had been less practiced in the art of self-discipline, he would not have been able to answer in his usual neutral tone. "I quite agree," he said soberly. "In fact, let's not talk about this at all."

"I will not tolerate that sort of vulgarity . . ."

"Really, Gilbert, it's alright . . ."

"Oh, yes, _I'm_ the one being vulgar here . . ."

Shirley's father was on his feet now, the fictive ease of the desk-sitting abandoned. He ran a hand through the salt-and-pepper of his curls, standing a few on end as he brought his voice back to a range that gave his words a veneer of professional detachment. "Shirley. Listen. Dr. Stekel is one of the premiere researchers in the world. His methods for treatment are . . ."

"No."

"You need to hear this, Shirley."

"No, I don't."

His mother wrung her hands. "Please, sweetheart. Just listen. We only want to help. To keep you safe . . ."

Shirley met her sorrowful gray eyes and saw that she really did believe that she was helping. But whatever tender shoots of fellowship had grown up between them recently had withered away like the flowers of the forest.

"Do you really agree with all this?" Shirley asked, unable to keep his voice completely free of dismay.

His mother bit her lip, but met his eye. "There have been times in the past when your father and I have argued over medical matters," she said, "and I've learned that he's generally right in the end. If there's a treatment that might work, it's our _duty to tell you that there is a chance_."***

Shirley felt a profound disappointment. No matter how kind-hearted or free-thinking or well-educated she was, his mother still saw him as damaged. She truly thought she was being kind while insisting that he was broken.

" _I am sufficient as I am_ ," he said, unblinking.

His mother, flushed before, went white as marble. " _A line of poetry isn't a convincing argument_ ," she murmured.****

Shirley scoffed. "You don't really believe that."

"We love you, Shirley," she said quietly, tears welling in her eyes. "Perhaps we've failed you in some ways. _I've_ failed you . . ."

Her tears annoyed him. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to mourn but their ignorance. He resented the implication that he should have to comfort his mother as if she had suffered a blow. Still, she was crying. It wasn't a ploy — her hurt was real — but Shirley grudged her the demand on his kindness as much as he grudged his father the demand on his civility.

"You haven't failed me, Mother," he sighed, resigned.

"Dr. Stekel says that it is impossible to instill goodness through fear," she said, wiping moist eyes. "He writes that the only true educational levers are love and a good example. I've always believed that. You aren't in any trouble, sweetheart. We would never punish you. We only want to help you."

"Listen to me Shirley," his father said, a note of pleading in his voice. "Dr. Stekel isn't a butcher. He strongly opposes any medical or surgical intervention. He argues strenuously against any sort of punishment. He even campaigns for decriminalization!"

"Bully for him."

His father was undeterred. "Dr. Stekel has conducted extensive research. He has found that homosexuality is a state of arrested development in which childish urges fail to develop into mature, healthy forms of love. It isn't your fault. You . . ."

"You should stop now." A sharper edge had crept into Shirley's voice, but his father barreled past without noting it.

". . . Dr. Stekel has developed a type of psychoanalysis that helps patients overcome their immature inclinations and _learn to love in an adult manner_. There is an analyst in Kingsport who is willing to . . ."

"No."

"Dr. Stekel's recommended treatment . . ."

How much longer was this going to go on? Shirley wasn't positive that he could maintain his calm much longer.

"Shirley?"

"What?"

"Will you go to see the analyst?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Shirley could feel the outer edge of his patience, sharp under his toes like the lip of some underwater ledge.

"Because I'm not ill."

His father riffled the pages of the book, scanning for a line. "Dr. Stekel even predicts your reaction," he said. "Ah, here it is: _We see the wound but the patient will not, cannot, see it. He may go so far as to claim that he has no wound and is well; that he was born with the ties that bind him; or else that he came with that wound into the world_."

"Sounds about right."

The book snapped shut. "Shirley, let us help you," his father said in the kind, firm tone he he had used to bend a thousand recalcitrant patients. "It's not your fault, and Dr. Stekel's methods have helped many homosexuals overcome their problem and develop the capacity for mature love."

Shirley felt unutterably weary. "I've heard more than enough. _Don't speak of this to me again_."

"But sweetheart . . ." his mother pleaded.

"No!" His patience was gone and he couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice any longer. "I'm twenty-seven years old. I'm not a _perpetual infant_ , whatever that's supposed to mean. I'm not going to an analyst. And I'm done talking about this."

Gilbert squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'll change your mind if Carl agrees to go."

Shirley's _heart skipped a beat — or, if that be a physiological impossibility, he thought it did_.***** The syncope cleared his voice of all emotion, leaving only a perfect, deadly calm. "Don't you dare mention this to him."

"I won't have to," his father replied gravely. "John and Rosemary are speaking to him over at the manse. We decided that it would be best . . ."

Shirley cut him off, hand slashing the air. "They have him there right now?"

"We thought it would be better if each family . . ."

Shirley was halfway to the door already.

"Shirley, this conversation isn't finished!" his father called after him.

Shirley already had a hand on the doorknob, but he turned back with a mutinous glare thrown into sharp relief by the crackling fire. Stalking back across the room, he stopped when he was nose-to-nose with his father. Shirley was pleased to find that he had a slight height advantage.

"Then let me finish it," he said in an impossibly unruffled tone. "Don't talk to Carl. Don't talk _about_ Carl. And if you have any more brilliant ideas about how to 'cure' either of us, you can . . ."

Shirley made a sudden motion that made his mother gasp. But he did not touch his father. Instead, his hand darted to the desktop, plucking Dr. Stekel's _The Homosexual Neurosis_ from its place on the blotter. "Well, after reading _this_ ," he said, flipping the book into his palm, "I'm sure you have a very detailed understanding of where you can stick your opinions."

Before either of his parents could reply, Shirley turned on his heel. On his way past the hearth, he dropped the book into the flames, sending up a shower of sparks.

* * *

Carl sprinted down the veranda steps and across the narrow strip of lawn that separated the manse from the old Methodist graveyard. Perhaps he would have made a plan if he could have formed a coherent thought, but he was sunk deep in a buzzing cloud that admitted only one imperative: _get to Ingleside_.

It wasn't helping that his shirt seemed to be shrinking as he ran, collar constricting around his throat, cloth turning to iron and squeezing the breath from his chest. Carl clawed at his tie as he stumbled down the well-worn path past the big tamarack tree and the old Bailey garden, desperate for oxygen as he plunged into Rainbow Valley. His brain was so fogged that he barely registered Shirley barreling toward him until they crashed together in the middle of the wooden footbridge over the brook, locking one another in a desperate embrace.

Clinging, they swayed together, Carl not even caring that the arms wrapped tight around him were crushing what little air was left from his lungs.

"They . . . you . . . didn't . . ." he gasped.

Shirley relented immediately, holding Carl by the shoulders at arm's length. "Breathe," he urged. "I'm fine. I was coming to make sure you were alright."

"I . . ." Carl panted, "was coming . . . to make sure . . . your dad . . . was alright."

A smile twitched in the corners of Shirley's mouth, relaxing him a fraction of a degree. "Well, I did consider laying him out, but in the end I only burned his book."

"Book?"

"Your dad didn't have one?"

"No . . . wish he had . . . might have helped him . . . get to the point faster."

Carl sank onto the bridge-planks and tugged on Shirley's trouser leg for company. Shirley hesitated, looking back toward Ingleside and up the other long slope that led eventually to the manse. But it was dark and chilly and besides, let anyone try to come for them at this particular moment and see what happened.

Chest still heaving, Carl yanked at the strained four-in-hand knot dangling at the end of a badly stretched loop of tie, but only succeeded in pulling it tighter in his frustration.

"Let me," Shirley said, lifting the tie over Carl's head and going to work on the shrunken knot. Carl acquiesced, concentrating on breathing slow, even breaths as Shirley picked at the fabric, long fingers coaxing the silk with little tugs until the loops relaxed and slipped apart.

"Thanks," Carl said, draping the slack tie around his neck like a stole.

Beneath them, the brook rippled gently, its soft eddies rimed with moonlight. The murmur of water over the rocks resonated through Carl's body, slowing his heart, expanding his lungs. He leaned against Shirley's shoulder, wanting to ask what had happened at Ingleside, but not sure he was ready to hear it.

His own evening had been plenty to grapple with on its own. Carl had been surprised when his father and Rosemary had invited him to dinner on a night when they knew Una would be out late at an Altar Guild meeting. But with Rosemary recovered from her fever, Carl was happy to pop over for a catch-up. Perhaps he and his father would finally have a chance to discuss his article.

Over lemon pie with whipped cream, John Meredith had begun to speak in indecipherably nested clauses. Carl might never have ferreted out the point he was circling so ineptly if Rosemary had not stepped in with her usual composure.

"You aren't in any trouble, Carl," she said in a tone that immediately triggered the part of his brain dedicated to fleeing wolves and volcanoes and lightning storms.

Carl relaxed into the panic, knowing that resisting would only bunch him up, making him tight and fragile when he needed to be resilient.

Thankfully, there had been no talk of hellfire nor damnation, only an insistent refrain that they wanted to help him and more than a few sentences that began with, "Dr. Blythe says . . ."

By the time Carl had figured out that Dr. Blythe was probably saying aplenty at that exact moment, he worried that it was too late. Why hadn't he known that Shirley was going over to Ingleside tonight? When had they stopped knowing the details of one another's days? One another's weeks, come to that?

He had excused himself precipitously, not even making excuses, leaving his father and Rosemary gawping impotently after him.

Now he was sitting on the footbridge, with Shirley beside him, warm and solid and unharmed, at least physically.

"Tell me about the book?" Carl ventured.

Shirley did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice seemed frayed. "What are we doing, Kit?"

"Doing?"

"Why are we here? What are we trying to accomplish?"

Carl wished he could have said he didn't know what Shirley was talking about. Suddenly, parents and analysts and incinerated books seemed like droning bees, ineffectual at any distance, with stings too short to reach anything vital.

"We're being together," he answered faintly, taking a keen interest in his own shoes.

"And how's that going?"

It was the sort of question that contained its own answer, requiring nothing but silence to confirm.

When the pause had stretched beyond acceptable limits, Shirley said, "I had a visit the other day. From Wilkie."

So this was how it would end. Carl might have prepared himself better. If he were honest, it had probably been a long time coming. Would Shirley even have come to the Glen at all if Wilkie had been free back then? Doubtful. There was nothing for him here. That had been true all along, even before tonight's ambush. And then they'd lost track of one another. No that wasn't quite true. _Carl_ had lost track. He wasn't quite sure how it happened — he'd put his head down to tabulate data or write about migratory patterns and reemerge a week later, expecting Shirley to be just where he'd been before. That was stupid. Nothing ever stays where you leave it, not ever.

And now Wilkie. Not even a surprise, really. Carl couldn't stand up to Wilkie on any measure, and knew it. He had exactly one thing in his favor, which was that the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian Church had accidentally and unknowingly located him in little Shirley Blythe's vicinity back in the days of eel-fishing. Just a fluke. If they hadn't met until Redmond, Shirley would never even have bothered to learn his name.

"Oh?" was all Carl managed to say.

"He wanted me to go to Berlin."

"Did you want to go?"

"Yes."

Alright, well, no use crying. Not here anyway. Save it for later, if possible. Probably not possible.

"When do you leave?"

Shirley shifted beside him, gaze palpable even though Carl could not meet it.

"You really think I'd go?"

"You hate it here, Shirley. It's not a big secret."

The shoulder beside Carl's sagged. "I hate it here because there's no place for us to be together," he said. "I miss Kingsport. I miss walking home with you and watching you write and having to steal the covers back."

Definitely not possible.

Sniffling, Carl was still able to find a smile. "Do you remember our first night at Mrs. MacDougal's?"

"Do you mean the part when a beetle crawled across my face or the part when you shoved me onto the floor in the middle of the night?"

"I wasn't used to sharing a bed! Jerry always made me sleep alone."

"Jerry is clever."

They shared a few humor-tinged breaths. Enough?

"Is it stupid to want to go back in time?" Shirley asked.

Carl tried to name his tone and settled on _wistful_ , which was not generally an adjective he associated with Shirley. _Wistful_ was for people who felt so powerless to get the things they wanted that they buried their desires in melancholy and rue. Shirley was rarely helpless and he had never denied what he wanted.

"If it is, I'm an idiot."

"How do we get that back?" Shirley asked. "It's impossible here."

"It isn't," Carl said, mind already whirring with emerging solutions. "We just have to be more intentional. It's not like it used to be, when we could just count on coming home at the end of the day. We have to make time for one another. Make a plan."

Shirley seemed skeptical. "You mean like a schedule?"

"Why not?" Carl asked. "Sunday dinner at Aster House was great. We should have kept the habit. Why didn't we?"

"We started going to our parents' on Sundays."

"Well, I think that's probably on hold for a bit, don't you?"

"I'd say so," Shirley chuckled. "But dinner's not enough. I want to stay over afterward."

Carl was nodding, already envisioning the security of routine. "Of course. That'll be good. No truck, though."

"No truck. And you should come to me one day a week, too."

"Day?" Carl asked impishly.

"Evening. And night. Wednesday nights."

"You'll have to get a bigger bed," Carl smiled. "Unless you want to end up on the floor again."

"Try me."

Hope bubbled like the spring under the maples. This could work. They could make it.

"One more thing," Shirley added. It could have been anything and Carl would have said yes. "I want us to go to Kingsport for a while. Get away from here and just be together. No distractions."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. Until we've figured things out better."

A lifelong project, but Carl wasn't about to quibble. "When do you want to leave?"

"Well," Shirley said, considering. "If we swing by the house long enough for you to grab some clothes, I could probably have us in the air in an hour. To Kingsport by midnight."

"Right now?" Surprise could not eclipse Carl's delight.

"Gotta take Di up on that offer sometime. And it's probably better if I don't cross paths with my dad for a while."

"What about Una?"

"Leave her a note."

Carl paused, but he had to ask or he'd go on wondering. "What about Wilkie?"

Shirley didn't answer right away, but that was alright. A glib reply would not have suited. "Maybe in another life," he said at last. "Not this one, though. I hope he finds his happiness in Berlin."

Shirley stood up, brushing dirt from his trousers. When he extended a hand, Carl noticed for the first time that he was wearing the high-contrast radium wristwatch that had been his replacement Christmas gift. Carl had had it engraved with their initials where the watch case touched the skin.

Carl took the hand offered to him, holding it even after he had gained his feet.

Shirley looked down at their intertwined fingers and, his face softening. He ran a thumb along of the curve of Carl's hand and murmured, " _He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me_."******

"Is that Whitman?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Hardly a guess. You quote Whitman the way Una quotes the Bible."

That got a smile, tender but not wistful, having no reason to regret unattainable things.

"I love you, Kit. Really."

"I love you, too. I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt it."

"Nah. Never."

The moon stood witness to their kiss, with only the susurrus of marsh grass for applause.

* * *

Notes:

* _Anne of Ingleside_ , chapter 23. If Walter's apple tree is outside Sam's window, Sam has Rilla's old room.

**Wilhelm Stekel, _The Homosexual Neurosis_. This book was translated into English and published in Boston in 1922. You can read it for free on Google Books (in the US, at least). Stekel's views were considered progressive and humane in the 1920s — just the sort of approach that would appeal to Gilbert.

***I know that Anne's attitude here may be controversial, so let me explain my thinking a bit. I have based Anne's actions here on her actions during the argument that she and Gilbert have over Dick/George Moore in _Anne's House of Dreams_ (chapter 29: Gilbert and Anne Disagree). In that episode, Gilbert argues that he has a duty to offer Leslie an experimental cure for Dick; Anne objects that Dick is happy as he is, and that "curing" him will make Leslie suffer (implying that Dick will sexually assault her, and alluding to possible sexual assault in her own past). In the end, Gilbert prevails over Anne's objections and Anne supports his decision. Even before they know the outcome of the procedure, Anne defends Gilbert's intervention to Miss Cornelia. Of course, that experiment restores George Moore's memory and leaves Leslie free to marry Owen Ford. Here, I am imagining a similar struggle behind the scenes, with Anne objecting to a medical intervention that might hurt someone she loves, but eventually deferring to Gilbert's definition of his duty as a physician and a man. Anne supports and defends Gilbert, trusting his expertise and his judgment, even when it goes against her own judgment. The fact that Gilbert was proven right in Leslie's case would strengthen his position in subsequent disagreements.

One of the reasons I chose Stekel's _The Homosexual Neurosis_ as Gilbert's preferred text here is that Stekel shared some of Anne's views on education:

 _"We do not as yet appreciate how careful we must be in our relations with the children. Our educators are still guilty of a serious blunder when they conceive their duty to be to instill goodness in the child through the instrumentality of fear. There are only two educational levers: one's own example and love."_

I can imagine Gilbert persuading Anne that Stekel's talk-therapy treatment is the correct course of action based on appealing to this shared philosophy. It's very close to the ideals that Anne articulates in _Anne of Avonlea_ (chapter 4: Different Opinions), when she tells Gilbert and Jane that she will never whip pupils, but will always try to influence them for good. Furthermore, Stekel's understanding of homosexuality as an "immature" state that can be treated by helping people develop into "maturity" agrees philosophically with Anne's belief that a teacher's duty is to find the good in a child and develop it.

In this story, I have had Gilbert reject most of the medical and surgical experiments being proposed as "cures" for homosexuality in the early 20th century. Treatments like lobotomies, chemical castration, and electroshock therapy would become widespread in the 1940s (think of Alan Turing), but the 1920s saw the development of many violent interventions, including surgical castration and the transplantation of testicles from heterosexual men's corpses into gay men (experimentally in several countries). Though many psychoanalysts (including Freud) were quietly skeptical that homosexuality could be cured, the overwhelming attitude of educated people and doctors in the 1920s was that it was an illness that could be cured. Thus, I have given Gilbert a somewhat progressive view that is still within that mainstream.

There is no getting around the fact that Stekel's ideas are horribly harmful and that having Anne and Gilbert articulate and apply them is cruel. But, having researched the reactions of kind, well-educated, well-off, white, Protestant families in the 1920s and having read some of the medical texts that would have been available to Gilbert, I am arguing that Stekel's approach is the one that would resonate with these characters as LMM wrote them.

****Paraphrased from the argument in _Anne's House of Dreams_ , chapter 29: Gilbert and Anne Disagree. Gilbert quotes a couplet of Tennyson in support of his argument and Anne objects to the tactic, leading to her canon statement that poetry isn't a convincing argument. Shirley has given Anne a line from Whitman's "One Hour to Madness and Joy." Other quotations in this section are from _Anne's House of Dreams_ , _Anne of the Island_ , and Stekel.

***** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 4: The Piper Pipes

******Walt Whitman, "On the Terrible Doubt of Appearances"


	23. (I'll See You In) C-U-B-A

**(I'll See You in) C-U-B-A***

* * *

1926-7

* * *

29 May 1926

Aster House, Kingsport, NS

Dear Una,

I'm sorry to have left so unexpectedly and without waiting to tell you in person. I hope you found my note right away and did not worry too much. Please forgive me — it was an emergency.

I don't know whether you may have spoken to Father and Rosemary since last night, or what they may have told you. The truth is that they confronted me and tried to persuade me to see an analyst. I refused. I'm alright — please don't worry. The bigger problem is that Dr. and Mrs. Blythe confronted Shirley at the same time, and it did not go quite as gently as my own conversation. I don't think that the Blythes are a danger to us, at least not in the way one might expect. But it is necessary to put a little physical distance between us and them at the moment.

We are staying at Aster House. Di and Sylvia are taking good care of us and we are alright. We will probably stay a month, though perhaps longer — I can't say for certain yet.

I mean to go over to Redmond next week and set up a meeting with Professor Michelson to talk over some of my findings. It's actually a good opportunity to use the college library — there are plenty of references I've been meaning to look up and can't at home.

The thing that weighs on my mind most is you. I'm so sorry to have left like that, Una. Please don't think it had anything to do with you. You've only ever been comforter and protector to me, and I'm sorry if I spoke too harshly about the matter you raised. You were only trying to solve a problem I have yet to puzzle out myself. Thank you for trying.

I am enclosing a cheque for half the contents of my account at the Crawford Savings & Loan. You can draw it at any time. It isn't much, but it should keep you until I have a better idea of the future. For now, I'm just trying to walk softly. I will write again as soon as I have anything to tell.

Love always,

Carl

P.S. Di and Sylvia send their love to you, and Shirley sends both love and apologies.

* * *

2 June 1926

Ingleside, Glen St. Mary, PEI

Dear Shirley,

Thank heavens you are alright. I was very glad to get your letter, though quite sorry that you needed to write it in the first place.

I knew something was the matter as soon as I returned from Charlottetown because your mother had taken to her bed and no one wanted to talk about it. It did not take me long to corner your father and get a bit of the story out of him, though he was reluctant to tell me the kernel of it. Finally, I up and told him that he needn't worry about telling me anything I didn't know already and then gave him a piece of my mind on the matter. He looked as confused as a duck hit on the head and made some apologies, though I told him plain it wasn't me that needed them. He can go without pie for the rest of his life as far as I am concerned.*

Of course, he hasn't much appetite, at least not since Di telephoned. I do not know what she said to him, but he spent the rest of the day in the library and I did not try very hard to coax him out.

Not that you need to worry over that. You are safe at Aster House and I hope you are having a nice time there. I am sending along a pound of fudge for the four of you, which should be enough, but let me know right away if it isn't.

Stay as long as you like, but know that I will be real glad to have you back. Sam and Wally have been asking after you and I am not sure what to tell them, so I only say that you love them and will come see them when you are able. I hope it will not be too long, though I understand if it cannot be soon.

Please give my love to Carl and to Di and Sylvia.

Love,

Susan

* * *

From:  
A. Blythe  
Ingleside  
Glen St. Mary, PEI

To:  
Shirley J. Blythe  
Aster House  
Greenwood Ave.  
Kingsport, NS

*RETURN TO SENDER*

* * *

3 June 1926

Lowbridge, PEI

Dear Carl,

I am very glad to hear that you are safe and well at Aster House. Please return my love to all there and thank Di and Sylvia for their hospitality. Matthew 25:34 (and subsequent) is of weight with me.

Please do not worry about me. I will not deny that I was surprised to come home to an empty house, but I understand that it was not a time to stand on ceremony. Thank you for the cheque. I have put it somewhere safe and do not intend to cash it, as the larder is well stocked and I have no other immediate needs. If it becomes necessary to discuss other arrangements, we will do so at the proper time. For now, I am keeping very busy. It is easy to do, as Amelia Newgate finds her twins quite overwhelming and absorbs all the help I can offer.

I should tell you that I went up to the manse the day after you left and found Father quite as wretched as he was on the day he could not whip you over the incident with the eel. I promised him that I would tell him when I had word from you, and I hope it is alright if I share news of your safety (though I will not tell him your location if you do not wish me to).

I am glad to know that you are able to get work done in Kingsport. It strikes me that if you find the library there useful to your work, it may be prudent to make a habit of visiting. Perhaps in the winter, when you are seldom on the water as it is. Think on it.

Do take your time. I will be alright until you return.

All my love,

Una

* * *

9 June 1926

Aster House, Kingsport, NS

Dear Una,

I had a letter from Father today. Don't worry that he knows where I am — Di telephoned Ingleside to read the riot act, so it isn't exactly a secret, and it would have been alright in any case. We're not hiding, just re-fitting and reorganizing. I have not opened Father's letter yet, but I mean to. It is quite thick and I suspect it says rather a lot, but I find myself wishing we could let the whole episode be forgotten and go back to talking about anything else. Impossible, I know. I will read it, I promise, and respond if I can.

My meeting with Professor Michelson was grand. We lost a whole afternoon talking over my article and recent efforts to expand the National Parks. He has been corresponding with a British animal ecologist named Charles Elton who is currently on expedition in Hudson Bay; Michelson thinks our work may be of mutual interest. I look forward to our introduction, having been reminded on this visit how beneficial it is to hash things over with a knowledgeable colleague. Professor Michelson even hinted that I might collaborate with him on editing a volume updating Charles Gordon Hewitt's _Conservation_. That would be a worthy project, and one well suited to the colder months.

With that in mind, I brought up the suggestion of winter visits over supper last night. The idea was met with immediate enthusiasm from our hosts. Sylvia insisted that we stay from New Year's until the first thaw. I don't know whether I can secure approval for such a change from the Department, but it is quite true that a month or two of library study in the winter would be better than my solitary writing at home. Given the low demand for cold-weather tours of the Island, I suspect a winter holiday would not be a particular hardship for Blythe Aviation either.

Shirley agreed that it sounded like a good idea, but I could tell that it was not enough for him. I don't know exactly what to do. We have to find some way of living that is sustainable for both of us. I can never be an eagle and he can never be a penguin, but there is such a thing as a seagull and they get by no matter the circumstances.

As ever, I am conscious of my responsibilities to you and will take every possible measure to avoid making hardship for you. That blasted wood stove takes enough attention in fine weather, let alone a cold snap. Why ever do you prefer it? I wouldn't leave you alone in the house for any length of time if I can help it. If we come to Kingsport in the winters, would you consider coming along with us? I'm sure Di and Sylvia wouldn't mind. I know you have responsibilities at St. Elizabeth's. But think on it.

Love always,

Carl

* * *

10 June 1926

Aster House, Kingsport, NS

Dear Susan,

Thank you for the fudge. We all appreciated it very much. Di agreed that it was the real Susan brand and nothing either of us could come up with would be quite the same. Did I ever tell you that I let her in on the secret of the baking powder? Don't be cross — she thought it was a fine joke.

We are getting along well here. Carl is using the Redmond library and getting a little work done. I am not working at all, only reading and walking around the city. The stores here carry all the latest in radios and I have been looking for options to replace the little crystal set I built. The newer radios are usually sold in expensive cabinets, but I should be able to pick up all the operative parts separately and assemble them myself.

We have also made a habit of going to the moving pictures. Last week we saw _Ben-Hur_ and yesterday _The Lost World_. There are three movie houses in Kingsport, which is good for variety, although it seems that one or the other is always playing a war movie, which we avoid. I'm afraid that means our next outing will be _Phantom of the Opera_ , which is Carl's choice, though I would see _The Lost World_ again. I do not know how they filmed the dinosaur models, but it was a marvel.

I know you will want to know when I am coming back. I do not know what to tell you. Carl and Di have suggested many reasonable options, but none has given me the sense of elation I felt flying away into the night two weeks ago. If I were alone, I might go on flying and never look back. But I'm not alone and don't want to be. That's been half the trouble. I don't know yet what solution we will find, only that we will find one. Whatever it is, I will write you.

Say hello to Sam and Wally for me, and give a kiss to Jemmy as well.

Love,

Shirley

* * *

From:  
A. Blythe  
Ingleside  
Glen St. Mary, PEI

To:  
Shirley J. Blythe  
Aster House  
Greenwood Ave.  
Kingsport, NS

*RETURN TO SENDER*

* * *

19 June 1926

Aster House, Kingsport, NS

Dear Una,

We have come to a decision.

It is our aim to come back to the Island in time, but not right away. We mean to travel for the rest of the year, flying south — like geese, I suppose, rather than gulls. The idea would be to come home with the flocks next spring, hopefully refreshed and ready to implement our scheme of overwintering in Kingsport in future, along with the schedule I mentioned in my last.

There are two major concerns with this plan. The first is your welfare. I can't leave you alone a whole year, Una, and I hate to ask you to move home to the manse. You have always been too willing to sacrifice and I am so completely indebted to you in every way that am loath to ask anything more. I would not ask now, except that this may be our only chance to salvage ourselves. Nothing short of that emergency would make me ask you to take on any hardship. I am wretched just writing this because I know that you will always give more than you have and it feels like a sin to let you, let alone request anything so monumental as moving house. Tell me to go jump in a lake, Una. I deserve it.

The second concern is much less. I have written the Department asking for a year's leave. If they do not grant it, I will quit. It seems unlikely that they will approve, particularly as I didn't give a very specific reason and they have held my health against me in the past and would gladly do so in the future. If they approve my request, that is well and good, but even a perfect job is only a job in the end. Besides, Professor Michelson and I have had a few more chats about writing together — giving up this job may be a blessing in disguise.

I believe that we can make this work. Perhaps I am a fool, but I must go on believing at any cost.

Love Always,

Carl

* * *

27 June 1926

Lowbridge, PEI

Dear Carl,

You write of debts. There is only one outstanding debt — to love one another — and that can never be paid in full. Romans 13:8

Go south like the geese, Carl. I will be here when you return. I will stay in the house this summer for the sake of the garden. When the weather turns, I will go to Mrs. Palmer. If you could see her tears when I asked if I might board with her in the winters, you would see that your joy only begets more joy. If you should ever desire a dip in Pelham's Pond, it will not be at my insistence.

All my love,

Una

P.S. Please tell Shirley that I have picked up his mail and arranged to have it held at the post office in future. I will not read it, of course, but will forward anything that looks important.

* * *

To:

Shirley J. Blythe  
Blythe Aviation  
Mowbray Narrows, PEI

[Postcard of the Brandenburg Gate; no message, no signature.]

* * *

22 July 1926

Havana, Cuba

Dear Di,

Thank you for everything. Really. When we left Four Winds, I had no thought beyond getting out, and you gave us a safe place to land. I don't know what we would have done without you. Sylvia, too. Give her our love.

We have arrived safely in Havana and will stay here several weeks. After that, we may go over to Venezuela — apparently Nellie Fletcher is on expedition there and Carl is going to see whether we can't catch up with her. He's sent off a letter to her base camp today, so we shall see.

For now, we are playing tourist. You never saw an ocean like this, Di. It's hard to believe it's connected to the one back home. Carl met a dolphin, so you may never hear from him again.

I'm including a business card from our hotel so that you may write us here. Don't fret over funds — there are more than enough soft American businessmen in the casinos here (fancying themselves cardsharps) to keep us in the black indefinitely.

Love,

Shirley

* * *

[Postcard with palm trees and beach]

To:  
Sam, Wally, and Jemima Blythe  
Ingleside, Glen St. Mary, PEI  
Canada

Dear Sam, Wally, and Jemmy,

Have you ever seen a coconut? I have. They grow at the top of tall, skinny trees with no branches. There are lots of coconut trees in Cuba.

Love,

Uncle Shirley

* * *

8 August 1926

Aster House, Kingsport, NS

Dear Shirley,

I am beyond glad to hear that you are arrived safe and having a good time.

We are both intrigued by your description of Cuba. Tell me, do you think it would be hospitable to two ladies traveling "alone"? We have not had a vacation in years and were thinking we might enjoy a trip to Europe next summer, but had not considered Cuba. I'm afraid neither of us is much of a hand at cards, but do you think we'd find it enjoyable otherwise?

Don't stop reading when I say I have had another letter from Dad. An apology this time, if a limited one. I have tried arguing with him on medical grounds, but fear that that is a dead end, he having any number of credentialed experts on his side. However, I made rather more headway in our last exchange, explaining to him that he can believe as he likes, but if he ever speaks to you in that manner a second time, I will never set foot in his house again. I think that is the best leverage we have: our presence or absence from their lives. It has at least gotten his attention, and if it has not changed his mind, at least it has him apologizing for his manner.

As for Mother, I do not know what to say. I cannot wholly blame her for supporting Dad as a matter of spousal loyalty. I know that is not an excuse, but I think that her apologies are genuine. You don't have to forgive her or even open her letters, but if you ever wish to give her a second chance, I think that she is truly sorry.

I am forwarding a letter that looks like it is the reply from the Department of Marine and Fisheries. I hope that it is good news, whatever that might mean in this case.

Always remember that we love you and that you're welcome back at any time. Sylvia is already redecorating the green bedroom for your winter sojourns, so you may count that as a binding contract.

Yours in solidarity,

Di

P.S. Sylvia here. Indeed, I have not begun redecorating. I am only in the planning stages. The green room still has that awful paisley wallpaper it has had since before our college days and I have been looking for an excuse to get rid of it for years. In any case, the only actual addition I have made to the room is an orange crate, which I have been slowly filling with lone socks, bits of notepaper, and pencil stubs Carl left all over the house. I expect I'd find ears if they were not so firmly attached to his head. Do look after my absentminded friend, won't you? Tell him that the neighborhood squirrels are desolate and congregate forlornly on the garden wall waiting his return. All my love. S.C.

* * *

From:  
A. Blythe  
Ingleside  
Glen St. Mary, PEI

To:  
Shirley J. Blythe  
Guanabo Hotel  
Havana, Cuba

*RETURN TO SENDER*

* * *

1 October 1926

Caracas, Venezuela

Dear Una,

Hello from Venezuela! We were very much delayed on account of the tremendous hurricane this past week. We were perfectly safe — Havana was not hit — but reports of the destruction in Florida are grim. We meant to stay in Venezuela only a few weeks and then head up to Key West, but now I think that we will winter here.

Part of the attraction is the company. Nellie is very well. She sends you her love and apologizes profusely for being a poor correspondent, by which I gather she means that she only writes to you at every possible opportunity, given that she's off sketching beetles in the mountains five weeks out of every six.

If she is indeed lax in her letters, you may not have heard her news: she is engaged to marry a very nice Dutch entomologist from Curaçao. They are to be married at Christmas, and she was very quick to invite us to stay for the festivities.

Bram is a jolly chap. The first night here, we got to talking ants over dinner and before I knew what had happened, it was midnight. He adores Nellie, that much is plain. He tried to show us his favorites among her watercolors from their most recent expedition and ended up going through the lot, which must have been 100 or more.

Di forwarded the a letter from the Department, saying that the circumstances of my request were very irregular, but they expressed some dismay at letting me go. I am to report to the head office in Ottawa on May 1, 1927, where I imagine I will be scolded roundly, but have some small hope of being reinstated. I do miss the Gulf, even here among the tropical reefs. I'll see a scarlet ibis wading here and admire its beauty, but find myself wondering how the puffins are getting on at home.

How are things in Lowbridge? Are you thinking of shutting up the house soon? I have sent a letter to Mr. Crawford at the Savings & Loan instructing him to let you draw all you need from my account. The pension money should be accruing there and I haven't touched it in months, so it should see you through the winter alright.

Give my love to Faith and Jerry and Bruce, and all the children when you see them. I am writing to Father and Rosemary as well, so no need to tiptoe.

Love always,

Carl

* * *

[Postcard with sharks]

To:  
Gilbert and Victoria Ford  
405 Russell Hill Rd, Toronto, ON  
Canada

Dear Gil and Victoria,

Have you ever seen a shark? I have. It was a whopper, too — a bull shark as big as a horse. Don't worry, though — I was in a boat.

Love,

Uncle Shirley

* * *

13 November 1926

Lowbridge, PEI

Dear Carl,

Wonderful news from Charlottetown! Nan has had her baby — a third girl. She and Jerry have named her Portia, another Shakespearean reference, I have been assured. I went up on the train with Father and Rosemary to visit, and found Bea and Dellie quite captivated by their little sister. She looks just as they did when they were born.

The frost has settled in good and proper, so I have shut up the house and come to Mrs. Palmer's. You needn't worry about me at all. I am quite satisfied with my situation and am glad to be so much closer to St. Elizabeth's for a while. No cycling in the snow and sleet this year.

Mrs. Palmer is as pleased to have me as I am to be here. I think she has been very lonely these past few years. We cook together and read to one another and make up packages for the less fortunate members of the parish. We have begun a quilt for Mrs. Mallory, whose husband was injured in the canning factory accident and cannot work anymore. The quilting scraps go to rag dolls for their daughters, who must have a merry Christmas no matter the straits.

Rosemary mentioned that she and Father had a letter from you and that you had gone into the mountains for a time to see the insects. I can easily picture the little boy you used to be going into raptures over the prospect, and imagine that you are not so different now. I'm very glad for you, and even gladder to hear that you have written home. Luke 15:4

I am sending along a wedding gift for dear Nellie. I am not certain what sorts of linens are needed in that clime, but hope that tablecloths may be of use anywhere.

All my love,

Una

* * *

4 December 1926

Caracas, Venezuela

Dear Gil,

I am sending along a Christmas gift that I hope will be more unusual than what Santa often brings. I am reliably informed that it is called an elephant beetle, and I'm sure you can see why. It was collected in the forest here in Venezuela, where there are many large and alarming insects. At first I thought to send you a picture, but figured you would rather have the real thing instead. Don't go scaring your sister with it.

Love,

Uncle Shirley

* * *

[Postcard with tropical fish of Curaçao]

To:  
Beatrice, Cordelia, and Portia Meredith  
16 King's Square, Charlottetown, PEI  
Canada

Dear Bea, Dellie, and Portia,

Merry Christmas! I am on a beautiful island called Curaçao. It is very hot here, even at Christmas time. Do you think Santa can come to a place where there is no snow? I hope so!

Love,

Uncle Carl

* * *

5 January 1927

San Juan, Puerto Rico

Dear Una,

Nellie Fletcher is now Nellie Meijer, and a happier bride you never saw. It was a small wedding in Curaçao, which is perhaps the loveliest place we have seen so far. The buildings are all painted bright colors and the sea is like clear turquoise glass and the beaches white as salt. I assure that your tablecloth was much exclaimed over for the quality of its workmanship, and will find an appreciative home on Nellie's tea table when she and Bram return from their wedding tour (though I suspect they will not take it on expedition with them). They mean to make a home base in Curaçao permanently and continue their joint work cataloguing the insects of the south Caribbean coast.

With Nellie and Bram off on their new adventure, it was time for us to move along as well. Florida is still in dire condition, so we came to Puerto Rico instead. I would tell you that it is beautiful, but I would be repeating myself. All of these islands look as if they were illustrated. Each day is very pleasant — in fact, it is exactly as pleasant as the day before. Barring hurricanes, nothing changes much from day to day or season to season. In fact, the whole idea of seasons seems irrelevant here. As I write this, it is 79 degrees and sunny in the first week of January. It will be 79 and sunny tomorrow and the day after, perhaps rising to 85 and sunny in the summer. I can hardly complain about it. But I miss the Gulf in its moods.

I should not complain. We are well and happy and enjoying exploring a new place. There is a beach near here that is famous for sea turtles, and I mean to go and see them when I have the chance.

Tell me all about Christmas. Did you go up to Ingleside or stay with Mrs. Palmer? Bruce must be back from Redmond — how is he enjoying his studies? Has he decided if he wants to go to St. Columbia or not? How is Faith getting along? She must be very near her time by now. I had a letter from her in October, but nothing since — please tell her I am thinking about her. And how is Jerry? Last I heard from Father, he was trying that big insurance fraud case, but I never heard how it turned out. Did he get a conviction?

I love you all and will write often. Please do write me — we'll stay here in Puerto Rico long enough to get letters.

Love always,

Carl

P.S. I am sending home a watercolor Nellie gave us as a parting gift. It is of a pair of Orinoco geese that hung around our campsite in November. They are very striking birds. You will notice that it is difficult to tell the males from the females, their plumage being so much alike, as is common in many geese.

* * *

From:  
A. Blythe  
Ingleside  
Glen St. Mary, PEI

To:  
Shirley J. Blythe  
Estrella del Mar Hotel  
San Juan, Puerto Rico

*RETURN TO SENDER*

* * *

16 February 1927

San Juan, Puerto Rico

Dear Susan,

Thank you for sending word of the newest addition to the family. Cecilia is a beautiful name. We both enjoyed the snapshot of all the children together. Can they really have grown so much? I still think of Jemmy as a baby, but she isn't anymore.

Carl looked at the picture for rather a long time. He did not say that it is time to go home, but there was no need. He is right; it is. I won't say that I have tired of our trip; we may have to repeat this getaway from time to time in future. But I think we have stored up enough fuel to see us through for a while. I'm even looking forward to getting back to the hangar — I have some ideas for a homebuilt aircraft I'd like to try out after seeing a few examples here and there in our travels.

Look for us sometime before Easter.

Love,

Shirley

* * *

Notes:

*Irving Berlin, "(I'll See You in) C-U-B-A" (1920). It's a song about how Prohibition is stupid and everyone should "leave our cares and troubles behind" and go have a good time in Havana. Worth a listen on YouTube.

**"Susan had conscientiously spanked all the other Blythe children when she thought they needed it for their souls' good, but she would not spank Shirley nor allow his mother to do it. Once, Dr. Blythe had spanked him and Susan had been stormily indignant. 'That man would spank an angel, Mrs. Dr. dear, that he would,' she had declared bitterly; and she would not make the poor doctor a pie for weeks." _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 1: "Home Again"

* * *

Tip o' the hat to Excel Aunt, who prompted us many months ago to write a story about burning a book. Please consider that last chapter my official entry.

Also a shoutout to kslchen. My original plan was to let Shirley and Carl start spending winters in Kingsport, but kslchen asked for nice, long vacation first, so vacation it is. (Thanks for the opportunity to put in some Nellie details I never thought I'd use.) And since it's a shoutout to kslchen, the chapter title is a song, of course.

As always, thanks to Marisa and the other Guest commenters - such good points. It's a pleasure to write for such an engaged audience. You're all right about the unsatisfactory nature of The Plan, so let's see if this is better. (Also to Marisa's question, I think everyone assumed Di wouldn't marry when she decided to become a doctor.)


	24. Muggins the Sky Terrier

Some more reader requests here: puppy for kslchen; candle salad for oz diva (with MrsVonTrapp's objections duly noted).

* * *

 **Muggins the Sky Terrier**

* * *

December 1929

* * *

On Christmas Day, Carl waited by the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It was one of those overcast winter mornings when the lack of darkness proved that the sun must be up, even if it was impossible to locate it precisely in the flat uniformity of a pearl-gray sky. Carl peered anxiously down the Lowbridge Road, expecting to see Shirley's truck pull into view at any moment. It had snowed on Christmas Eve, but not enough to block the roads. Besides, Shirley had chains on his tires and could definitely get through. Any minute now.

There would be plenty of celebrating today, with Ingleside packed well beyond capacity. The place would teem with little Blythes and Merediths and Fords in the throes of holiday exuberance, with feasting and laughter and probably a squabble or two before the pudding was eaten and the last carol sung.

For now, it was silent. Or would be, but for the faint mewling from Carl's flannel shirtfront. He pressed a hand over the solid little body curled snugly against his chest. A little face peered back up at him, black eyes bright against tweedy tufts of grizzled fur, one silky ear folded in quizzical disarray. The little Norfolk terrier had spent the first several weeks of her life snuggled up in a basket with her brothers and sisters in the warmth of a kitchen down at Harbor Head, but had clambered over them to investigate Carl when he had gone to select one of the pups yesterday. She had spent the night curled against his chest, the tiny flutters of her heart reminding him irresistibly of Cricket.

A crunch of snow outside and Carl looked up to see the black pickup rumble to a stop. It was difficult to contain his grin, but he tried, pulling his shirt more snugly closed as Shirley gained the porch.

"Merry Christmas!" Carl exclaimed, throwing the door open before Shirley had a chance to knock.

"You, too," Shirley said, gone slightly wary at this exuberant greeting. More wary still when he went in for a hug, only to have Carl back away, hunching his shoulders protectively in a gesture that Shirley had long ago learned to interpret as the presence of some fragile fellow-mortal secreted in one of Carl's pockets.

"Who's your new friend?" he sighed, pulling the door shut behind him.

Carl could barely speak for grinning. "Not mine. Yours."

With a flourish, Carl reached into his shirt and extracted the pup, all scrabbling paws and waggling tail, her solid little body vibrating with reflected excitement.

"Mine?" Shirley asked, brows raised. "You got me . . . a dog?"

"You would have preferred a rat?" Carl said, depositing the dog into Shirley's not-quite-waiting arms.

"I'm not sure," he said regarding the fuzzy creature with skepticism.

"Oh, come on," Carl said, a flicker of doubt kindling. "Dogs are very good company. Though rats are, too, come to that."

It had not seriously occurred to Carl that Shirley might not want a dog. It had seemed such a good idea — a loyal companion who demanded neither conversation nor confession. Now, watching Shirley lift the squirming pup, considering it critically, Carl worried that he had misjudged.

"If you don't want it, I'll keep it," Carl said, deflating. "I just thought . . ."

Shirley blinked. "Did I say I didn't want it?"

"Well, do you?"

Shirley did not answer right away. Instead, he brought the little creature up to his face, scrutinizing her nose-to-nose. His inspection was met with the frantic licking of a little pink tongue, accompanied by a series of joyful yips. A smile unfurled across Shirley's face, extinguishing Carl's worries as it spread.

"That's settled then," Carl said, clapping his hands and resuming his own grin.

Shirley tucked the puppy into the crook of his arm and groped for a handkerchief to wipe his dog-dampened face. Carl rushed to his aid, applying his own flannel sleeve and taking the opportunity to deliver a proper greeting of his own. Under a veneer of toothpaste, Shirley tasted of tea and bacon and something freshly baked.

"Merry Christmas," Shirley said, eyes still closed as Carl released him.

Carl waited for him to open them again before asking earnestly, "Do you really like the dog?"

Silly to ask when the laughing twinkle in the brown eyes was all the answer he needed.

"I do," Shirley confirmed. "Though we'll see how I feel when she's ruining my furniture."

"You can train her up," Carl said, scratching the pup under her chin. "Terriers are very smart. And loyal. I think you'll get on famously."

"What about Di and Sylvia? Do they know they'll have an extra visitor for the New Year?"

Carl waved the objection aside airily. "I wrote to them weeks ago. Di's thrilled because she's been bothering Syl to get a dog for years and Syl's happy because she thinks having a dog visit for three months will scratch the itch sufficiently."

They spent the next several minutes lavishing attention on the puppy, whose appreciative writhing sunk her ever deeper into the bend of Shirley's elbow. He cradled her tenderly, letting her gnaw on his knuckles while Carl rubbed her belly.

"Do I smell . . . steak?" Shirley asked, wrinkling his nose. "In this house?"

"We had to feed her something," Carl shrugged. "I think Una was glad to have an excuse to cook meat for once."

"Is she going to church with you?"

"Una? No. She went to St. Elizabeth's with the Newgates. Then she's going to Mrs. Palmer's for dinner and Archie will bring her to Ingleside after." Carl paused. "You know, _you_ could come to church with me. If you wanted to."

Shirley grimaced. "I'm happy to give you a ride. And I'll see you at dinner."

There had been a time when Shirley had still gone to church, if only, Carl suspected, to mollify Susan. That had all stopped after what Carl still thought of as The Talk. In addition to the weekly schedule and the yearly sojourn to Aster House, there was no more church for Shirley. Carl still attended every week, excepting only those winter months in Kingsport, and even sat with Rosemary most of the time, having no pew of his own.

Carl had navigated the aftermath of The Talk mostly by pretending it hadn't happened. This was a strategy that seemed to suit his father and Rosemary well enough. When Carl went to dinner or tea at the manse, always in company with Una, they pursued other topics with a determination that Carl was happy to adopt. Within a few months of Carl's return to the Glen, things seemed to settle down to a "normal" that was pleasant enough, if not entirely comfortable. Carl suspected it was only awkwardness that made his father flee any room that Shirley walked into, though the explanation did not lessen the sting. Perhaps it was for the best that Shirley stayed home Sundays.

Shirley, for his part, did not speak to his parents at all. He still went to Ingleside at least once a week, hearing Susan's news over the kitchen table or playing catch with Sam and Wally or taking Jemmy and baby Cecilia on rambles through Rainbow Valley to give Faith an hour's peace. On these occasions, he met his parents' greetings with perfunctory politeness, at least when the children were present. He rebuffed all other overtures with merciless efficiency, avoiding his parents when possible, ignoring them when not. This uneasy stalemate had hardened over the past three years, both sides entrenched and wary with a blasted field of mines and barbed wire between them. Even when Mrs. Blythe had sallied forth with various offerings of peace, she had found no weaknesses in the line. _The iron had entered into Shirley's soul_ and he ground every hopeful overture to dust beneath his heel.*

"Will you be alright today?" Carl asked cautiously. "After last year . . ."

"I can't stop her giving me books," Shirley said, dismissive of both his mother and the unread Yeats that had found its way into the St. Elizabeth's donation box. "But I don't think she'll try to draw me into another literary conversation."

No, Carl thought, shivering at the memory of Shirley's frigid resistance to his mother's sanguine invitations last Christmas. Individually, each demurral was irreproachable; collectively, they were glacial. In the end, Nan had ridden to the rescue with a spirited opinion on Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium" that had given everyone a chance to paper over the chasm.

"You don't have to stay long," Carl said.

"It'll be fine," Shirley said. "You know how Susan pulls out all the stops for Christmas. And I want to see Gil. Besides," he smiled down at the pup, who gave a tremendous yawn, "you've given me the best shield possible. It'll be all dog talk, all day long."

Carl had to concede that this was probably true. There were no new babies for the company to coddle and pamper, so a puppy was the next best thing for focusing everyone's attention on a neutral topic.

"Got any good dog names?" Shirley asked, stroking the pup's silky ears. She began to yawn, worn out by the morning's excitement.

"Lots," Carl grinned, reaching for his coat.

* * *

It was already dark when Una tapped lightly on the kitchen door at Ingleside. It had been a very long day, though a happy one. The three-year-old Newgate twins had told Una everything anyone could ever wish to know about Santa Claus; St. Elizabeth's was full to bursting with joyful song; Mrs. Palmer had put on a spread that would have overwhelmed any two guests, let alone two as modest as Una and Father Kirkland. In truth, Una enjoyed the quiet company of Mrs. Palmer's table more than the chaos of Christmas dinner at Ingleside, and was happy to give up her seat.

No one answered Una's knock, which was understandable, judging by the tumult on the other side of the door. A chorus of feminine voices in various octaves was accentuated by the clatter of plates and cutlery, though the meal must be long since finished. Una pushed the door open and took a cautious step into the kitchen.

"Una!" Rilla jumped up from the crowded kitchen table in a blur of green velvet and ruddy-brown curls and ran to embrace her. "It's lovely to see you!"

Behind her, Nan Blythe held court at the table, a _Good Housekeeping_ cookbook open at her elbow and a curious assortment of trimmings spread before her: lettuce leaves, canned pineapple rings, a bowl of maraschino cherries, another of whipped cream, and a dozen ripe, yellow bananas. She was flanked by half a dozen little girls in their holiday best. To her left, Jemmy and Cecilia Blythe fidgeted on the bench, while little Victoria Ford placed a lettuce leaf daintily on the plate in front of her. To Nan's right, her own three lassies flashed pearly little smiles at their Auntie Una, their matching plaid taffetas swishing against their legs as they waved. Una waved back, privately thinking that Shirley was quite justified in never being able to tell them apart, with their identical silky brown hair and dark, flashing eyes. It did not help that Nan insisted on dressing them alike. Carl's trick of remembering that they were named alphabetically by age was a very useful shorthand, at least when they were close enough together to compare by height.

"Auntie Una!" exclaimed Beatrice, who, at six, had set herself apart from her younger sisters by losing one of her front teeth. "We're making Candle Salad!"**

"Candle Salad?" Una asked, exchanging her coat for an apron. "I don't think I've ever had it."

Jemmy Blythe peeked out from under thick red curls, which were more than a match for the solitary velvet ribbon meant to hold them away from her forehead. "Auntie Nan has a recipe in her book," she said. "She says if we follow the steps, we'll make a candle!"

"And eat it!" piped up Cordelia Meredith, giggling behind her pudgy hand.

Una slid onto the bench beside Cecilia, putting an arm around her youngest niece. "Are you going to make a candle too, Ceci?"

Cecilia pointed across the table, exclaiming, "Banana! Banana!"

"Yes, we have plenty of bananas," Nan said, consulting her cookbook. "But first, we must build our bases."

Nan led the little girls through the preliminary steps, directing them to place lettuce leaves flat on their plates and rest a pineapple ring on top to serve as the bobeche. Next came the bananas. Una helped Ceci peel hers, while Rilla assisted three-year-old Portia Meredith.

"So this is the candle part?" Rilla asked.

"Yes, that's right. You cut the banana in half and stand it up inside the ring, like this," Nan said, demonstrating.

"Oh," Rilla said, a faint flush rising under her creamy complexion.

Nan did not notice, being preoccupied with Cordelia's banana, which required another round of trimming before it would stand erect. Una had better luck with Ceci, mostly because her youngest niece had already devoured more than half of her banana, leaving only a stubby end that was in no danger of toppling.

"Next comes the whipped cream," Nan said. "I saw a different version of this recipe that said to use mayonnaise because it would look more like wax. But I think the whipped cream will taste better."

"Like this, Mummy?" Victoria Ford asked, adding a dollop of whipped cream to the tip of her banana.

When no answer came, Una looked up to see Rilla biting her lower lip and turning a very pretty shade of pink.

"Umm . . ." Rilla faltered, "I . . . I think so."

"Just let it drip down the side a bit," Nan said, unconcerned. "And when the wax is done, you can take a maraschino cherry and pop it on the top for a flame."

At this opportune moment, Carl stepped into the kitchen, carrying half the crumb-speckled dessert plates from the dining room.

"Hello, ladies," he said brightly. "How are you getting on with your . . . your . . ." Carl stopped in his tracks, blinking hard and tossing his head like a fly-bothered horse. His mouth gaped open as if he meant to finish his sentence, but he shut it again, swallowing conspicuously.

"It's a candle, Uncle Carl!" Bea explained, dropping a cherry onto the peak of her dessert.

"I . . . I see that," Carl choked, bypassing Rilla's crimson and heading straight on to purple.

The kitchen door swung open again, admitting a dish-laden Faith mid-sentence.

". . . is broken, so we'll have heat up water on the stove to wash OUCH! Carl, why are you just standing there?"

"Mummy!" Jemmy exclaimed. "I made a candle!"

Faith took one look at her daughter's plate and exploded in a whoop of laughter that rattled the dishes in her hands. Carl joined in, spluttering with the last futile effort to keep his calm intact. Rilla did a better job of it, confining herself to muffled chuckles, while Faith and Carl egged one another on until they both sank to the floor, howling.

The commotion brought Di running from the dining room. "What's happened?" she demanded.

Faith and Carl were patently incapable of speech and Una was not exactly sure what the joke was, so it fell to Rilla to gasp, ". . . candle . . . salad . . ."

Di surveyed the table, her expressive copper brows pointed in her twin's direction. "Nan . . . what . . . why are . . ."

Nan, seeming to have cottoned on to the joke that still eluded Una, had gone pale rather than pink. "There's no picture in the cookbook," she said defensively. "I was only following the directions!"

"A fine time to forget you have an imagination!" Di muttered.

"Don't you like our candles, Auntie Di?" asked Victoria, big gray eyes round in her tiny face.

Di aimed a surreptitious kick at helpless Faith and put on her stoic doctor face. "They're ever so clever, sweetheart. What lovely Christmas candles."

"Perhaps we should clean up," Nan said, rising abruptly from her seat. "I'll help with the dishes."

"Can't we eat the candles?" Cordelia squeaked.

"Of course you can, lovey," Di said, patting her niece's sleek brown head.

This was a foregone conclusion in Ceci's case, her candle salad having been reduced to sticky smears and a residual lettuce leaf. The others soon followed suit, destroying the evidence that any such thing as a candle salad had ever been assembled in the Ingleside kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Nan said, directing her apology to Una and Rilla, rather than to the tear-splotched siblings only now picking one another up off the floor. "I should have thought . . ."

"It's quite alright," Di said, green eyes twinkling despite her outward composure. "We'll just forget this ever happened."

"Not likely!" Faith blurted, setting Carl off on another round of cackling.

Una was not sure exactly what to do, though it was plain that no one would explain the matter with so many eager little ears in the room. Deciding that the best course of action was to carry on as normal, she wiped Ceci's face with a corner of her apron and addressed the other children.

"Did Santa bring you presents?" she asked, and when they answered that he had, "Will you show them to me?"

"Come upstairs," Jemmy urged, taking Una's hand. "We've been playing in my room. I got crayons and a tin circus train, and Ceci got a stuffed giraffe, and Victoria has a new tea set for dolls, and . . ."

In a flurry of velvet and taffeta, the little girls abandoned the table, leading Una by hand and skirt as she balanced Ceci on her hip. When the kitchen door swung shut behind them, Carl and Faith were still hiccuping to one another.

"Candle Salad!"

* * *

"It's perfectly disgraceful!" Susan declared, jabbing at the front page of the _Charlottetown Guardian_ with a knitting needle. With Christmas and its myriad culinary demands over at last, Susan could rest on both her laurels and her leftovers long enough to catch up with the week's news. She had never quite given up the habit of newspaper-reading, though she would grudgingly admit that the new-fangled radio did allow one to sew and keep up-to-date at the same time. However, Dr. Blythe objected to having his radio cabinet stabbed when Susan was vexed with the state of the world, so the _Guardian_ remained a daily staple at Ingleside.

"Anything in particular?" Gilbert asked from the table by the Christmas tree where he and Jerry were arrayed either side of a chessboard.

"Look here," Susan said, reading the headline to the room at large: "SENSATIONAL CASE IN THE POLICE COURT."***

"Susan is this really appropriate. . ." Anne cautioned with a furtive look toward her grandsons.

Indeed, Sam and Wally had paused the tussling game they had been playing on the hearthrug with Shirley and his new pup, all ears pricked in interest. Even Gil Ford, lolling on the couch behind a recent issue of _Flying Aces_ magazine, looked up over the top of his page.

Shirley did not react. He knew the story already and sat impassive as Susan recounted how Willard Tanton, son of a leading Prohibition advocate, had been caught stashing nine gallons of rum in his father's basement and been fined three hundred dollars. The judge and the Chief Prohibition Inspector promised that Mr. Tanton Senior would also face charges, though these had been delayed, owing, no doubt to the festive season.

"It's all anyone can talk about around the courthouse," Jerry said, sliding his bishop across the board. "Most people didn't think they'd press charges against the father, but Chief Inspector Haywood is relentless."

"Serves him right," came a sullen muttering from the corner armchair where Ken Ford had been doing a decent impression of reading. "Hypocrites. They show a respectable face to the world while they condone chaos at home."

Shirley focused on the puppy, who had rolled over on her back, paws churning the air as she wriggled under his gentle scratching. What was the best way to describe her fur? Wiry, though quite soft on the belly, and somewhere near the color of wheat interspersed with brown and gray, making him think of Harris tweed. Maybe _Harris_ would be a good name . . .

"I doubt Tanton will get more than a minor fine," Jerry said. "The real damage is to his reputation, of course. Splashed all over the front page of the _Guardian_ like that. No one will ever trust him again."

"And they shouldn't," Ken agreed.

Shirley risked a covert peek at Ken. He had been in a foul temper since arriving in the Glen, and before that, too, Shirley suspected. No mystery there; between the London stock market crash in September and the American crash in October, many businessmen were having a less-than-merry holiday. Even in the Glen, farmers had been heard to mutter over the falling prices of onions and potatoes. But the harvest of 1929 was already safely sold, and there was plenty of time for prices to recover before the next crops went in. Shirley had no idea just how much money Ken had lost already, but judging by the shortness of his temper and the tightness of Rilla's expression even at Christmas dinner, it was probably a lot.

"There must be some more cheerful news, Susan," Anne said with forced lightness. "Wasn't there a new church opened in town on Christmas Eve?"

"Romish," Susan grunted dismissively. "But see here, the Pensions Act is to be revised so that more of our boys qualify for what's due them. Well, if Mackenzie King does right by the pensions, the Liberals will have my vote and no mistake."

"I'm all for pensions," Jerry said, shaking his head, "but a poor economy will hurt more veterans than any pension will help them. Just look at your front page, Susan. Wheat prices plummeting, rampant racketeering, and King doing nothing at all. Give me Tories any day."

The talk then turned to Ottawa more generally, a subject that sent Gil back to his _Flying Aces_ and Sam and Wally to lavish their attentions an appreciative pup.

"Why doesn't she have a name, Uncle Shirley?" Wally asked as he scratched a twitching ear.

"Haven't thought of one yet," Shirley shrugged. "I've only had her a day."

Sam leaned down to rub noses with the dog and got a euphoric lick in return. "Where'd you get her?"

Shirley's lips twitched. "From Santa Claus, of course."

Sam's brow gave a skeptical wiggle that made him look unnervingly like his mother in spite of hazel eyes. Wally, however, was still a believer at seven, as all of Ingleside still adhered to the old rule that children should _posses their heritage of fairyland as long as they can_.****

"I've got one for ya, Uncle Shirley!" said Gil, dangling his magazine over Shirley's shoulder. "Right here. Page 352. _The Sky Terrier_."*****

"Sky Terrier?"

"No, that's not the name. See? It's a story about the 20th Squadron RAF at St. Marie-Cappel and their fearless mascot, Muggins."

" _Muggins?_ " Shirley choked.

"Yeah, see? Muggins wanders into the aerodrome one day and adopts the 20th and they start calling themselves the Terriers after him. They even paint little dogs on the sides of their Spads."

"The 20th's insignia is an eagle," Shirley said, frowning at the pulp paper, "and they mostly flew Bristols . . ."

"It's just a story, alright?" Gil grumbled, snatching the magazine back.

Shirley checked his urge toward pedantry; no sense in making the kid feel like he was preparing for an exam.

"And what becomes of Muggins?" he asked by way of apology.

Gil's scowl lifted by degrees as he raced through the unlikely plot. ". . . and then Baron Von Glückner captures Muggins, but spares Captain Gorman's life on the promise that they'll fight it out one-on-one in the air over St. Omer the next morning and then Muggins helps out Gorman by . . .

Shirly interrupted with an upraised hand. "Why don't you read it out," he said. "It will be easier to follow that way."

Gil obliged, reading aloud with surprising fluency for a boy just gone nine. He kept his voice low enough that he did not interrupt the conversation on the other side of the room, which had turned inevitably toward the economy and other such uninspiring piffle. Sam and Wally hung on Gil's words, bursting into nervous giggles at the healthy sprinkling of _hells_ and _blast its_ and _damns_ that leant the story more real danger than any number of fictionalized Barons in their red triplanes ever could. There was also liberal abuse of "the Jerries," which Gil rendered in a conspiratorial whisper so as not to catch the attention of their uncle, who was now explaining the concept of agricultural commodity futures to a stone-faced Susan.

When Muggins leapt to Captain Gorman's aid in the climactic dog-fight by sinking his little terrier teeth into Baron Von Glückner's neck, Sam and Wally gasped with awed delight. Then the red Fokker was going down down down, and Muggins with it! Wally covered his open mouth as the triplane plowed into the ground with a _rending, grinding, snapping crash that rang in Captain Gorman's ears as he sent up a silent prayer for Muggins_. Of course, from his position, Gorman couldn't see that Muggins had hopped out of the cockpit and leapt _over the side a few seconds before the Fokker crashed._

The boys were too occupied in cheering Muggins' miraculous escape to note Shirley's odd coughing fit, from which he recovered in time to enjoy the denouement, featuring a hospital visit from Captain Gorman's commanding officer: _King George wants to pin a medal on your chest — the old D.C.M. . . . The frogs want permission to clamp a Medaille Militaire or some such thing on your manly bosom, but I still think you're a damned fool. I'm not so sure yet that I won't put you to a court martial_.

"What, no D.F.C.?" Shirley muttered, though his nephews ignored him in their raptures over a very satisfying end to such a thrilling tale.

"Whattya say, girl?" Gil said, leaning low over Shirley's shoulder to rumple the pup's ears. "How d'ya like _Muggins_?"

The ecstatic yipping was more than adequate answer.

* * *

* _Anne of Green Gables_ , chapter 15: "A Tempest in the School Teapot"

**This is a real 1920s recipe, published in many cookbooks, newspapers, and ladies' magazines, promoted as "A Decorative Christmas Candle Salad" (it was also cited as a fun treat for Halloween and children's birthday parties). Nan has the 1927 cookbook, _Good Housekeeping's Book of Good Meals_. Image search at your own risk.

***Susan is reading the December 23, 1929 edition of the _Charlottetown Guardian_. You can read it for free online at islandnewspapers dot ca. All the news items related here are from the front page.

****Anne of Ingleside, Chapter 12

*****"The Sky Terrier" by Joe Archibald appeared in the November 1929 edition of _Flying Aces_. The stories in _Flying Aces_ are so over-the-top — it's like the Story Club for boys. Italics are quotes from Archibald's story.


	25. Fathers and Sons

Content Warning: Homophobia

* * *

 **Fathers and Sons**

* * *

July 1931

* * *

"Easy there, Sam," Shirley cautioned from the rear seat of the plane. He shouted to be heard over the whir of the propellor as he tried to calm Muggins, who was standing on his lap with her front paws on the instructor's controls, slapping him with her wagging tail. "You want to turn in a wide, controlled arc. Nothing too sudden."

Sam Blythe stuck a pointed pink tongue through his lips, biting in concentration as he brought the plane around at the end of the landing strip. It wasn't a flashy aircraft, just a simple parasol-wing homebuilt that Shirley had fitted with a modified Ford Model A engine. But designing, building, and testing it had occupied Shirley's attention for several years, which was a blessing.

It was more than that, though. With the economy still in tatters and not getting any better, there were far fewer tourists on the Island. Add to that Nova Scotia's repeal of Prohibition in 1930, and Blythe Aviation's cash flow had slowed to a drip. Shirley would not have been overly concerned on his own account, but there were rumblings of belt-tightening at the newly renamed Department of Fisheries as well, and a 40% pension was nowhere near enough to support three adults. That's why the homebuilt had a hollow section and a big enough fuel tank to reach the States, where Prohibition was still the law of the land.

No rum-running today, though. After a suasion campaign that had been going great guns since the craft was still a sketch on his drafting board, Shirley had finally agreed to let all his nephews have a go taxiing to and fro on solid ground, on the condition that they follow his instructions scrupulously. Sam, Gil, and Wally had grinned their delight, then tripped over one another racing for position, wriggling into the front seat like a pile of puppies with Muggins yipping at their heels. Sam had claimed the seniority of his eleven years, a tactic to which Wally had long ago resigned himself, but which Gil Ford resented openly.

"You're doing it all wrong!" Gil shouted over the whirr of the propellor. "Just look at where your feet are!"

Shirley craned his neck to see over the boys. Gil was quite right — Sam's foot position was atrocious — but it wasn't Gil's place to instruct him.

Shirley reached forward and tousled the golden hair roughly. "Your turn next, Ace," he called. Then to Sam, "Watch your feet, Blythe!"

Sam adjusted, straining with concentration until the sweat pouring down his neck was not merely the result of the midsummer heat. The plane jolted a bit on its way back toward the hangar, a feat, Shirley thought, considering that there wasn't a single stone or divot anywhere on his runway. But Sam brought them in safely, even when Shirley's attention was captured by the tall man standing in front of the hangar, stance wide and combative, arms folded resolutely over his chest. Muggins spotted him as well, placing her paws on the lip of the cockpit and barking util Shirley hushed her.

"You did it!" Wally shouted as Sam brought the machine to a halt.

Even Gil congratulated his cousin, though he looked up sharply when Shirley cut the engine. "Wait, don't shut 'er down, Uncle Shirley! It's my turn!"

Shirley did not answer, being too preoccupied with the visitor, whose steely gray gaze withered any joy Shirley had felt in the lesson.

"Gilbert!" Ken Ford called to his son. "It's time to go."

Gil's elation crumpled into dust. "Aw, rats, Dad! It's my turn next! Can't I just stay a few more minutes?"

"No backtalk, young man," Ken warned.

Shirley didn't want to interfere, but his heart went out to the boy, who had been vibrating with excitement since the moment Shirley had promised him a go. "Maybe tomorrow, Gil," he said, hoping to soften the blow.

Ken looked up into the cockpit, meeting Shirley's eye with a glare of such unexpected loathing that Shirley recoiled. "No, not tomorrow either," he said. "You're spending entirely too much time out here alone, Gil."

"I'm not alone!" protested outraged Gil. "I'm with Uncle Shirley! And Sam and Wally and Mugsy . . ."

"Go get in the car," Ken said in a tone that Gil recognized as unassailable.

Disentangling himself from his cousins, Gil climbed down from the plane, scowling but silent. Shirley followed, motioning for Sam and Wally to stay where they were. Similar admonishments had no effect on Muggins, who leapt to the ground to twine herself through Gil's legs as he slunk over to his father's Cadillac.

"The boys are just having a bit of fun, Ken," Shirley said.

"Well I don't like it," Ken said, rounding on him, voice low and dangerous. "Them spending the whole summer all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. With you."

He said no more, but his meaning was clear. He held Shirley's eye and did not look away, his glare an open challenge and an accusation.

If there had not been so many little eyes on them, Shirley might have taken a swing at him. The injustice of Ken's implication was enough to make the edges of his vision turn molten, but there was nothing he could do about it without making a bad situation worse. It might be satisfying to sink a fist through the center of Ken's face, but it wouldn't help Gil any.

Instead, Shirley took a large step backward and plastered a grotesque smile over his features.

"Good to see you, too, Ken," he said heartily, loud enough that all three boys could hear. Then, waving to Gil in the car, "Bye, Gil! You're welcome to come back any time!"

Ken stalked toward the car, pausing at the door to cast one more baleful look at Shirley.

What had happened? Had there been some high-profile arrest in the news? Had someone made a joke that rubbed Ken the wrong the wrong way? Impossible to say.

Shirley was quite certain that all the siblings had worked out the truth years ago, and Cuba had rather confirmed things. Heck, Di assured him that Faith had known about her and Sylvia since college days, and had run interference for them when Nan got inconveniently curious. But this was different. Whatever had spooked Ken, he would raise Gil as he saw fit, no matter the injustice.

Shirley kept on waving until the Cadillac pulled out into the road, Gil's golden head pressed against the window. Muggins ran after, barking as the car raised a cloud of red dust in the drive. Shirley turned back to Sam and Wally, attempting to maintain a cheerful demeanor. There was confusion in the hazel eyes and the green, but no way he could explain what had just happened.

"Well, I guess it's your turn, Wally," Shirley said. "Are you ready?"

Wally's freckled face cleared as he scooted to the center of the seat. Sam turned to squint once more at his uncle, but received only bland pleasantry in reply.

Shirley did not drop the act until the propellor was roaring and the boys hooting with delight as Wally joggled the plane down the grassy runway. He had always hated dangers that couldn't be fought, but how did you fight an insinuation? It wasn't even a slander, just a filthy, unspoken lie. The vibrations of the aircraft resonated on the frequency of his rage, but he tamped it down, swallowed it, tried to clear his mind even as fury writhed against his ribs.

"Uncle Shirley!" Wally called. "Am I doing it right?"

"You're doing fine, Wally," he answered. "Just hold steady. You'll be alright."

* * *

It was past ten o'clock when Shirley's reading was interrupted by a distant knock from the downstairs office. Muggins hopped down from the bed and bounded across the little apartment, whining and barking as she paced before the door. Shirley marked his place in _Popular Mechanics_ with the latest German postcard — this one featuring a nightclub called _Eldorado_ — and hurried down the stairs to investigate.

Shirley was not certain who he had expected to see when the door swung wide, but it certainly wasn't Gil Ford, carrying a bulging knapsack, stormy face red with Island dust and tear tracks.

"Gil!" he exclaimed in surprise.

"You said I could come here if I wanted," Gil sniffed. "I'm never going back. Never!"

Shirley stepped backward, letting his nephew step into the office. He gestured toward the low blue couch in the waiting area, but Gil was already halfway to the stairs. Before Shirley could assemble an objection, he was up and through the apartment door.

The initial confusion was wearing off and Shirley's mind was beginning to outline the contours of this delicate situation. Gil Ford was in his apartment, late at night, alone, and upset. Oh, this was very bad.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Shirley followed Gil into the apartment, swinging the door open to its limit and leaving it that way.

"Why don't you sit down, Gil," he said, motioning to the kitchen table with one hand and reaching for the heavy fisherman's sweater hanging behind the door with the other. It was absurdly warm to wear at sea level on a summer night, but Shirley pulled it hastily over his undershirt and suspenders, wishing he had several more.

Gil obliged after a fashion, collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs, legs splayed and arms thrown across the tabletop. Muggins took up watch at his side, ears twitching nervously as Gil spat the grievances he had rehearsed on his star-lit bicycle ride.

"My dad hates me," he declared, convinced of both the truth and the singularity of this revelation.

"I don't know about that," Shirley said, going the long way around to get Gil a glass of water without passing behind his chair.

"He does! He says I can't learn to fly. That it isn't safe. I'm not afraid!"

 _Well that makes one of us._

"You can't go against your father, Gil," Shirley said, the words forced and gritty on his tongue.

"But he said I can't come here anymore! How will I ever be a pilot if I can't learn to fly? Can't I live with you, Uncle Shirley?"

Shirley set the water glass down in front of Gil and followed it with a plate of shortbread from the glass dome.

"Have a snack," he said. "I need to make a phone call."

Standing with the receiver in hand, Shirley thought absurdly of the war, and of the empty-bellied suspense of the seconds before the person on the other end of the line spoke. Would Susan still be awake? Maybe Faith? Jem would be alright . . .

The receiver clicked and a calm, familiar voice said, "Dr. Blythe speaking."

 _Any port in a storm._

"Dad. Hi. It's Shirley."

"Shirley?"

"Yeah. Listen: Gil Ford just turned up on my doorstep. Seems to be running away. I thought Rilla might have called you looking for him."

The line crackled, the space between the receivers bright with tiny explosions.

"No. She hasn't," Dr. Blythe said. "They must not realize he's gone yet."

"Alright, well, can you come get him?"

"He's there right now? With you?"

Shirley gritted his teeth. "Yes. He's sitting at my kitchen table."

"Alright. Keep him there. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Gil Ford was not, in fact, sitting at Shirley's kitchen table. He was on his feet, goggling at his uncle, red-rimmed eyes filling with tears.

"You sold me out! Snitch!"

"Gil . . ."

"You said I could come here any time! And now you're sending me back?" The boy was distraught. Incredulous.

"Gil . . ."

"I thought you would understand! I don't wanna go back! He never listens to me!"

Tears streamed down Gil's face and Shirley wanted nothing more than enfold him in a hug, reassure him that fathers didn't always know best, that he, of all people, understood that, and that things wouldn't always be the way they were right now.

But someone would ask — _Ken_ would ask — did he touch you? And if Gil said "he hugged me," that was it. They were done. It would be fists or prison and certainly never Gil again, shrieking with joy as the wind whistled over their wings.

Shirley wrapped his arms around himself instead and tried to sink into the wall.

"I know he doesn't, Gil. And I know it's hard. But you have to get along with your parents, at least for a few more years."

"But it's not fair! Uncle Jem and Aunt Faith let Sam and Wally come here anytime they like. I didn't even get my turn!"

Affection for the child swelled like an inrushing tide. His innocent outrage was as heartbreaking as his belief in justice. Shirley wished he could be honest, but any hope for the future had to pass through this particularly sticky wicket.

"You're right," Shirley said. "It isn't fair. I don't want to send you back, but if I don't, there's no chance of changing your dad's mind."

"He won't change his mind, no matter what," Gil muttered.

"Maybe not. But you won't be ten forever. I know it seems like a long time, but you'll be grown soon enough, and make your own choices."

Gil glowered, stormy petulance drawing his golden brows together and twisting his cherubic face into a scowl that desperately wished to be fearsome. "I wish I were grown right now! Then I'd never have to do anything I don't want to do. Like you, Uncle Shirley."

There was nothing to do but laugh. God, what a farce.

"What's so funny?" Gil asked, perplexed.

Shirley tilted his head back, still laughing, unable to explain the overwhelming absurdity of this guileless assessment. That Gil's simple faith in a better and freer life should find its concrete model in Shirley's own was both gut-bustingly hilarious and completely uncorrectable.

"Don't grow up too fast," Shirley said, wiping away a tear with the heel of his hand.

"Why not?"

Shirley sighed, searching for a way to buy them time. "Because I need someone to keep me up to date on _Flying Aces_. Tell me, what's the latest with the Hell-Cats?"

Gil brightened. There had indeed been a new installment of the Hell-Cat novels in his most recent issue of _Flying Aces_. He had lent it to Wally, but only after committing the plot to memory in such detail that he was still explaining it when headlights flooded the dark stairwell beyond the open door.

Shirley's parents swept into the little apartment, his mother dressed in an old flannel shirtwaist, her hair in a loose braid that was still bright red, though threaded through with silver. She hurried past Shirley to embrace her grandson, patting him soothingly and asking after his comfort.

Dr. Blythe stayed with Shirley by the wall. He was silent at first, watching his wife check Gil over for any overt hurts. Not finding any, she took the seat beside him and began to prod for the story of his troubles.

Dr. Blythe cleared his throat. "What happened?"

Shirley kept his arms folded across his thick-sweatered chest, testing his rusty voice against the years of silence. "Just what I told you. Gil knocked on my door. I let him in, then I called you right away."

 _Please believe me. Please believe me._

The wheels of his father's mind were visible in his furrowed brow. "You're an awfully long way from the old Elliott place," he said slowly. "Why did Gil come here instead of to Ingleside?"

"He likes planes, Dad. That's it."

Dr. Blythe was silent, looking his son up and down. Shirley consciously dropped his arms to his side. He'd done nothing wrong and had nothing to hide.

"Yes," his father said at last. "He does like planes, doesn't he? Any idea why he ran away in the first place?"

Shirley relaxed a fraction. "There was . . . an incident. This afternoon. I was letting the boys taxi the plane. Ken showed up and dragged Gil off. From the sound of things, he's forbidden him from returning."

Over the table, the same story in a rushed and childish voice: ". . . so Sam got a turn and then it was supposed to be my turn 'cuz I'm next oldest, but then Dad came and said I had to go right that very minute and it's so unfair . . ."

Dr. Blythe frowned.

 _Please believe me._

"It's awfully late," Dr. Blythe said. "We should take Gil home."

"I wanna stay!" Gil pleaded, looking to Shirley, who only shook his head. The boy dropped his gaze, but not before Shirley glimpsed the misery of his rejection. It didn't matter that it was the only way.

"It's alright, Gil," his grandmother soothed. "We'll talk with your parents. You won't be in trouble."

Gil allowed himself to be coaxed from his chair, too dispirited to pat Muggins goodbye. He shuffled toward the door, pausing only to give his uncle one last look of dismal reproach. Dr. Blythe followed, patting his grandson on the shoulder and nudging him toward the Cadillac waiting in the drive.

"Thank you," Anne said, wrenching Shirley's attention from Gil's disappearing form, "for keeping him safe."

"Of course."

"You did the right thing calling us. Your father will smooth things over with Rilla and Ken."

She stepped toward the door, and Shirley knew that as soon as it closed behind her, the matter would be completely out of his hands forever. Whatever the fathers decided in their paternal council would be the law of the land.

"Mum?"

She turned back, surprise written clearly on her delicate face. Shirley wished he had a more persuasive petition to offer, but he could do nothing but throw himself on her mercy.

"He likes planes, Mum. That's all."

His mother hesitated before she crossed the floor, paused before she reached up to kiss his cheek. The touch was light as the brush of a butterfly's wing, but he felt it long after she had disappeared into the night.

* * *

Shirley stood at his kitchen counter brewing a pot of coffee. It was not like him to sleep late, nor to require a jolt of caffeine, but he had lain awake until nearly dawn. Would it do any good to go over and try to reason with Ken and Rilla? Probably not; it might even escalate things. But how could he just abandon the kid? Gil's look of despair at his betrayal had cut deeper than anything Ken might insinuate. Not even Muggins' hopeful tail-wagging seemed to help.

Shirley had just taken the first bitter, bracing sip from his cup when he heard the unmistakable crunch of tires in the drive. Muggins raced for the door, scrabbling with excitement. That was unusual enough, the little terrier being somewhat skittish around clients, but then again, it was getting on toward mid-morning and she'd been cooped up inside all night. Shirley pulled on a clean shirt and followed Muggins down the stairs to the office, buttoning as he went.

The big picture window at the front of the office gave Shirley a fine view of the Cadillac that had just parked in the sun-baked drive. Not Ken's, though.

Dumbfounded, Shirley cracked the door and Muggins pushed her way through, barking eagerly as Gil Ford tumbled out of the passenger's seat. She couldn't have pulled him to the ground without his enthusiastic cooperation, but Gil was happy to oblige, tussling with the little dog as if she were a worthy adversary. The older man unfolding himself from the driver's seat grinned at his namesake's boisterous energy, then turned toward the door.

"What's all this?" Shirley asked.

His father removed his hat, ruffling the steel-gray curls beneath. It was impossible to pretend that this was a casual visit, but he did a creditable job.

"I heard that Gil here didn't get his turn to drive yesterday," he said. "I talked to Ken a bit last night. He won't budge on Gil being out here unsupervised. So I volunteered to chaperone."

Shirley's desire to launch Ken Ford into the sun was tempered by this unexpected development. The insidious accusation was still there, and he hated to dignify it through compromise. On the other hand, Gil was here, rolling in the red dust with Muggins and laughing like a loon.

"Chaperone? What does that mean?"

Shirley's father reached in through the open window of the Cadillac and drew out a folded newspaper.

"I've got my newspaper. If I recall, you have a couch in your office?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, I'll just catch up with the election results while you and Gil have your joyride. News from Charlottetown is that Premiere Lea's out and the Conservatives are in."*

Shirley stepped aside wordlessly, letting his father pass into the dim cool of the office. Dr. Blythe made himself comfortable on the couch in the little seating area where clients waited for their lessons and planned their tours, propping his feet on the coffee table and unfurling the exuberant headline: _Great Victory Achieved_.

Shirley peered past the resolute visage of Premiere-elect James D. Stewart, glowering from the front page.

"Dad?"

His father lowered the paper, brows raised in question.

Shirley cleared his throat. "There's coffee. Upstairs. If you want it. I just made a pot."

Dr. Blythe's shoulders relaxed. The hazel eyes glimmered with something fervent, though he restricted his actual words to the refreshments on offer. "Thanks. I'll get myself a cup. You boys have fun."

Shirley stood in the door, poised between wanting to say more and not knowing where to begin. But perhaps they already had.

"Come on, Uncle Shirley!" Gil called from the sunshine. "Mugsy says she wants to ride in front with me!"

* * *

Notes:

*PEI provincial elections were held August 6, 1931. The Liberal party suffered major losses, in part because of their ineffectual response to the Great Depression. The Conservatives captured 18 of the Island's 30 ridings (previously they had held 6). James D. Stewart became the new Premiere, replacing Liberal Walter Lea. Turns out the Conservatives weren't any better at handling the Depression and the Liberals captured all 30 seats in the election of 1935.


	26. Family

**Family**

* * *

February 1935

* * *

"Wait, listen to this one," Carl grinned, making Sylvia look up from her darning, already smiling in anticipation. "Faith writes, _Jemmy scandalized the Glen this week by climbing onto the roof of Miller Douglas's store and sitting astride the ridgepole, greeting everyone who went in with a cheerful wave. She says she was honor-bound to do it, having lost a forfeit to Libby Drew. It would have ruffled enough feathers in any case, but the outrage was heightened by her decision to wear some of Wally's old trousers and no shoes. I asked her about it and she said she wasn't a fool and wasn't going to sit a roof in skirts, and besides she needed her toes for gripping. I can't say I can fault her logic . . ._ "

Sylvia snickered, her round-cheeked face rosy in the amber lamplight of the Aster House sitting room. Across from her armchair, Carl occupied one corner of the squashy sofa with Shirley draped across the rest, his head lolling in Carl's lap as Carl read through the pile of letters from Ingleside and Charlottetown and Curaçao, his free hand lazily tracing the waves of Shirley's hair.

"Sounds like a chip off the old block," Di said, carrying a tea tray from the kitchen. She set it down on the coffee table, then shooed an inquisitive Muggins for the sake of the lemon pound cake.

"Both blocks, I'd say," Carl agreed. "Here: _I tried to get out of scolding her by making Jem do it, but he couldn't keep a straight face either, so we gave it up as a bad job_."

"Those children are as wild as you Merediths used to be," Di said. "Ceci's the only one who can keep still for three minutes together. If it weren't for Susan . . ."

She was interrupted by the trilling of the telephone, which must always be answered promptly in a doctor's house. As Di was the only one standing, she stepped into the hall to do the honors, allowing Muggins to establish an optimistic salient closer to the refreshments.

"Hard to believe Jemmy's eleven already," Sylvia sighed, turning her stocking right side out and inspecting her work. "I hardly recognized the boys at Christmas. Does Faith say whether they've decided on a school for Sam yet?"

"Last I heard, they were planning on sending him to the new high school in Lowbridge," Carl said, folding the letter. "No sense in getting a teacher's license from Queen's if he doesn't intend to use it. If he goes to Lowbridge, he can live at home."

"Poor kid," Shirley said, earning himself an affectionate swat from Carl.

There was no chance to retaliate. Di stepped back into the sitting room, face paper white, the stiffness of her posture bringing the conversation to a crashing halt. Shirley sat up quickly, scattering Carl's letters over the floor.

"What is it, Di?" Sylvia asked, though all Di's attention was focused on Shirley.

"We have to go to Ingleside," she said faintly. "Tonight."

"What's happened?" Carl asked.

Di shook her head. "Shirley . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

* * *

Una perched on the Ingleside sofa next to Shirley, balancing a cup of steaming tea on her black crepe knee.

"Shirley?" she called gently, hoping to focus his vague, faraway expression into attention. "Have a sip of tea, won't you?"

Shirley blinked, seeming to notice Una for the first time. He took the cup from her hand and held it steadily enough.

"Thanks," he croaked.

As Shirley touched the tea to his lips, Una surveyed the room, frowning. The house was crowded, half the Glen having come to pay their respects. Men in dark suits, speaking in low voices; women clustered in knots by age, rehashing the details of the service. Of course John Meredith had prayed very well, he always did, you know. But those Blythe children really were far too old to be blubbering like that. You could excuse it in the girls, perhaps but young Dr. Blythe really should have a word with his boys . . .

Una searched the room until she found Faith consoling Sam and Wally by the hearth. True, they were red-eyed, but wasn't that a testament to the woman who helped raise them? The girls had gone to bed a quarter hour ago, tear-stained Cecilia clinging limpet-tight to her father's neck as he carried her up the stairs, and Jemmy following after, red braids quivering in time with her sobs.

The other children had weathered the day better, but only, Una suspected, because they were visitors to Ingleside, not residents. Jerry and Rosemary had taken the girls back to the manse, leaving Nan to trade mutual condolences with her sisters, while Leslie and Ken had escorted Victoria Ford to the House of Dreams in an effort to relieve the overcrowding. Gil had flatly refused to accompany them, ensconcing himself in a nook by the bookcase and staring round-eyed toward the sofa.

Where was Carl? Ten minutes ago, he had gone out to pull Shirley's truck around to the front of the house — perhaps he was waiting out in the drive. Una hoped he would have sense enough to come back inside; she doubted if she could coax Shirley into standing, let alone putting one foot in front of the other.

A flash of color against the sea of somber tones made Una turn to find Mrs. Blythe settling herself onto the sofa on Shirley's other side.

"Shirley, darling," she said, resting a gentle hand on his back. "Why don't you stay here at Ingleside tonight? The guest room is all made up. Let us take care of you."

Shirley merely stared into his tea.

From the corner near the window, a tinny creak of mirthless laughter broke through the din. "It was the most outrageous thing," whined Sophia Crawford. "She chased the poor man with a frying pan. A frying pan! Couldn't just refuse him like most women would. But that was Susan Baker for you. She had a terrible temper."

"She didn't," Shirley whispered, so low that only Una heard.

"What was that, darling?" Mrs. Blythe asked, leaning closer.

"Susan," he repeated. "She was . . . very understanding."

Mrs. Blythe stroked Shirley's back in long, arching caresses. "Of course. She would have done anything for you, sweetheart."

"She did," he replied. Then, inconsequentially: "She never really believed that I could bake. But I can. From watching . . ."

Sophia Crawford's cackle cut him off. Una looked up sharply and sought Faith's eye, communicating all that was necessary in a single imploring look. Faith caught her drift and hurried off to intervene by any means necessary, up to and including locking Sophia Crawford in the china closet.

"Where do gravestones come from?" Shirley asked no one in particular. "Is there a store? Do you order them?"

Una saw Mrs. Blythe swallow deliberately, and gave her a little nod of encouragement.

"Well," Mrs. Blythe murmured, "when Aunt Marilla died, I went to Charlottetown. There's a monument carver there and you can tell him what you'd like written on the stone. But we don't need to worry about that right now, sweetheart." She patted his back, but Shirley frowned.

"We should do it soon," he said, voice steady, but ever so quiet. "She needs a gravestone."

"Whenever you like, darling."

"And flowers. We should bring her flowers."

A memory came to Una and she did not have to force a smile. "I remember that you once told me that Susan loved tulips," she said. "Big and showy, so they'd stand out in the kitchen. But not fragrant, so they wouldn't interfere with the cooking."

Shirley stared. "Yes. Tulips. She loved peonies, too, but only outside."

"We'll transplant some for her," Una promised. "From the Ingleside beds. She'd like that."

"And calceolarias."

"Of course."

"I should have been here," Shirley murmured. "I shouldn't have been so far away . . ."

Una placed a slim hand on his arm. "None of that, Shirley. You were here for years and years. Susan knew how hard that was. She didn't grudge you your winters."

Mrs. Blythe stiffened slightly at this assessment, but what of it? It was the truth.

"I should have been here," Shirley repeated. "To say goodbye."

"It was an apoplexy," Una said reasonably. "Even if you had been at your apartment, there wouldn't have been time. She was here one moment and gone the next."

"I should have been here."

He was beyond reason and there was nothing to be done but to get him home. Where oh where was Carl?

An icy draft swirled into the room and Una looked up to see Carl, cold-flushed and slush-spattered, wearing a woolen coat and carrying another, weaving briskly through the crowd. He slowed his pace as he reached the sofa and knelt on the floor in front of Shirley, sparing not a single glance for either Una or Mrs. Blythe.

"Hey," he said, seeming not to care who saw him put a hand on Shirley's knee. "I've got your coat. Let's get you home."

Shirley said nothing, but the touch focused his attention as nothing else had, and he began to breathe louder than he had been speaking. Una plucked the teacup from his hand as Carl draped the coat over his shoulders and helped him to his feet. They cut a swath on their way to the door, mourners scattering before them like skittish crows.

Una rose and made to follow them, but Mrs. Blythe stood and touched a hand to her elbow. "Una, dear, I really think he should stay here tonight. Isn't there anything you can say that might convince him?"

Una looked through the open door and into the hall, where Carl was helping a compliant Shirley on with scarf and hat.

"I think he just wants to go home," she said.

Mrs. Blythe wrung her hands, her gray eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "He should be with family tonight."

Una cocked her head. After all these years, it still perplexed her that Mrs. Blythe could know the facts without grasping the truth. She might love Shirley as an individual, and even act the gracious hostess to Carl, including him in the wide circle of the family as Una herself was included. But there were no pictures of Carl on the bookcase at Ingleside, nor of Sylvia either. Their birthdates were not written in the Blythe family Bible; they had received separate, individual invitations to Dr. Blythe's 72nd birthday party last year. At the funeral, when Father had asked the congregation to pray for Susan's loved ones, Faith's name had followed Jem's like exhale and inhale. Nan and Jerry, Rilla and Ken, as natural as breathing. Di's name dangled, suspended, waiting for oxygen that never came; Shirley's barely made it past Rev. Meredith's lips.

Wishing that she could impart the gift of clear sight with a touch, Una pressed her own slender hand over the nervous fingers and held Mrs. Blythe's gaze. "He will be."

* * *

Carl woke to a timid scratching at the bedroom door. At first, he thought it might be Muggins needing to be let out, but no, the little tweed terrier lay awake at the foot of the bed, her body pressed close to Shirley's leg.

The scratching came again, a little bolder now, nearly a knock. Carl extricated his tingling arm from under Shirley's neck and tried to ease himself out of bed without waking him. Out of the warm nest of blankets, February air shocked his skin and sent him scrabbling for the quilted dressing gown hanging from the bedpost. Carl pulled it tight around himself and shuffled over the frigid floorboards to crack the door.

"Una?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's only . . . Gil Ford is here."

"Gil?" Carl rubbed his eye imprecisely with his half-awake hand. What time was it?

"He said he biked out to the hangar, then came here and saw the truck . . ."

Carl gave a little groan. "I don't know . . . I don't want to wake him . . ."

Too late; Shirley was stirring.

"Just stall, alright?" Carl said.

When Una had vanished beyond the closing door, Carl went back and crouched beside the bed.

"Hey," he said gently. "How're you feeling?"

Ordinarily, Carl enjoyed watching Shirley wake. Not that he got the opportunity very often; Shirley was habitually up with the lark, alert the moment he opened his eyes. But there was no joy in watching the sequence of emotions play over his features as he realized his surroundings and the reason for them.

"Ugghhh," Shirley moaned, covering his face with broad, brown hands.

Carl leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "I'd say go back to sleep, but there's a visitor here for you."

"I don't want to see anybody."

"It's Gil Ford."

Shirley peered out from behind his bulwark. "Gil? Here?"

"Apparently he's been tracking you all morning."

One deep breath and then Shirley was sitting up, tossing back the tobacco stripe quilt, reaching for his trousers. "How did he know I was here?"

"The truck's here," Carl shrugged.

"But how did he know to come looking for it?"

"He did see us leave last night," Carl said, pulling a clean shirt from Shirley's suitcase and handing it over. "Everyone did."

Shirley groaned a groan native to hangovers and other sorts of remorse. "Shit. Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not."

There was ice-filmed water in the wash-stand pitcher, and Carl marveled for a moment that Una had remembered to fill it when she re-opened the little gray house on such short notice. There were clean towels, too, and crisp pillowcases that smelled only faintly of the lavender in which they had been packed away. Carl never thought of things like soap or matches or clean handkerchiefs until the moment he needed them, and did not often wonder how they came to be placed exactly where he expected them to be. Watching Shirley wash sleep from his face, it struck Carl that Una had been here first, imagining every little necessity, arranging invisible things with attention and care. Even now, the scent of cinnamon buns wafting from the kitchen implied kindling split and firewood carried and a day that had started long enough before dawn that the dough had had time to proof.

Shirley dried his face and pulled on the thick green cardigan Susan had knit him for Christmas. He didn't need help fixing the cowl, but Carl helped anyway.

"Say hi to Gil for me," Carl said, smoothing the unrumpled cable knit over Shirley's back.

"Come say hi yourself."

"I'll just stay here. Out of sight, out of mind."

Shirley registered his disagreement with a brief kiss, then slipped out the door to meet his nephew, Muggins tagging along at his heels.

Carl burrowed into the still-warm hollow of the bed, thinking of the little brown owls that made their homes in gopher dens. They could dig their own nests if needs must, but it was much easier to settle into a ready-made home. Most animals would defend their nests to the death, and Carl wondered whether burrowing owls found their tunnels empty, like hermit crabs, or if they devoured the original inhabitants. Starlings did that, stealing nests and killing the broods they found there to make room for their own. Then, of course, there were cuckoos, who laid their eggs in other birds' nests and fobbed off the raising of their chicks. Were they clever or wicked? Una would say it was the wrong question and focus instead on the warbler feeding the cuckoo chick even after the interloper had destroyed the warbler's own eggs.

Half an hour later, Carl was still musing on the habits of brood parasites, but finding it increasingly difficult to focus. Shirley's watch on the nightstand told him it was getting on toward noon and between the persistent aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls and the necessity of visiting the washroom as soon as possible, there was no chance of dozing.

He crept to the door, listening to the rise and fall of voices in the sitting room beyond. Too low to listen in properly, but Shirley seemed to be holding up his end of the conversation. That was good.

Carl's bedroom was at the back of the house, on the first floor. Una had the upstairs to herself: a little bedroom under the eaves and an even smaller sewing room that looked out over the garden. It was an old house, and the upstairs had been a loft before the previous owner had replaced the ladder with a steep, fisherman-built staircase, every riser a different height. Una had insisted that Carl have the downstairs bedroom, and he had often been glad of the space, though its location just off the sitting room was proving to be a problem just at the moment. There wasn't much to the little house — front hall, yellow kitchen, sitting room, tiny bathroom — and no way to emerge from the bedroom inconspicuously.

Evidently, Gil meant to stay, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Carl dressed in a hurry, layering one of Shirley's sweaters over his own, and wishing he hadn't left his boots conscientiously in the front hall. Not wanting to ruin his slippers, he went barefoot, holding a clean pair of socks and hoping the snow was not too deep.

It wasn't. Barely an inch, though that was more than enough to freeze Carl's feet the moment he lowered himself out the open window. Gil biked in this? Carl sucked his breath in through his teeth and scooted around the side of the house and up through the front door. Una hurried out of the kitchen to meet him and clucked at the state of his feet.

"Settled in for a chat, haven't they?" Carl said as he pulled on dry socks.

"It's good," Una said. "Gil's helping."

She went back to the kitchen, leaving Carl to tend to his ablutions. By the time he emerged from the bathroom, Una had fixed him a plate of eggs and set a place at the kitchen table so that he could eavesdrop at his leisure.

". . . into the cadet corps," Gil was explaining. "We drill and have lectures on how to read maps and use signal flags. I'm a pretty good shot; I finished first in my class when we competed against the upper school boys."

"That's great," Shirley said. "We could set up a rifle range this summer if you like."

"That'd be swell! I heard Mum telling Grandad that we'll come back as soon as school lets out. That's not so very long."

Carl smiled to himself as he spackled his toast with butter and blueberry preserves. Gil might not be very subtle, but he was sincere, and that counted for a lot.

The conversation wandered and so did Carl's attention. Should they go back to Kingsport or cut their trip short this year? Shirley might want to stay to set Susan's affairs in order, go through her things, see about a gravestone. Or maybe he'd want to go back to Aster House right away to grieve in peace, away from well-meaning questions and condolences. Either way, whatever he wanted . . .

Carl snapped back to the conversation when he registered Susan's name. Gil must have asked about her, and Shirley's voice had grown husky as he answered.

". . . would have pleased her, I think."

Gil sounded tentative, but unafraid. "Sam told me she used to say she was as much your mother as Grandmother is."

"She did say that. It was true, too. It's . . . hard to explain."

The voices were low enough that Carl had to stop chewing in order to hear. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have caught Gil's halting reply.

"I think I understand a little."

There was no more talk after that, though a certain creaking of cushions suggested an embrace more than awkward silence. Una gave them a moment, then went in, bearing a fresh platter of cinnamon rolls as excuse. She emerged with a soft smile on her face, reassuring Carl as she offered him the plate. By the time Carl had selected a bun for himself, the conversation had started up again: baseball and English class and did you hear about Amelia Earhart's solo flight from Hawaii to California? Susan would have clucked and reminded them that _if the Almighty had meant us to fly he would have provided us with wings_. But somehow, when Carl imagined her saying it, he thought she would be smiling.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

That's all I've got for the pre-prologue section of this story. I'm on vacation for a couple of weeks and then I am going to take a little bit of a break to get things in order for the second half. I will pick up with 1939 when I get back.

In other news, July 11 is my fanfic anniversary! I've been doing this for a full year and have published 430k+ words across 210 chapters and 10 stories. (Another good reason to take a little break to recharge!) There are a few of you who have read all of that and I just want to say THANK YOU and also WHY.

Love to you all and see you soon (you know I can't stay away long).

\- elizasky


	27. Prologue Revisited

Hello friends,

I have revised this prologue to reflect unexpected things that happened in the pre-war chapters. I didn't add whole sections, but attentive readers will spot small changes throughout.

I aim to publish new chapters once a week, so we'll see how that goes.

Cheers,

elizasky

* * *

 **Prologue**

* * *

When I peruse the conquer'd fame of heroes and the victories of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals,  
Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house,  
But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them,  
How together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long,  
Through youth and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were,  
Then I am pensive—I hastily walk away fill'd with the bitterest envy.

Walt Whitman, _Leaves of Grass_ , 1860

* * *

August 31, 1939

* * *

Shirley Blythe looked up at the sudden sound of many flapping wings. The congregation of seagulls, so placid a moment before, was beating the air, the birds squabbling frantically as they gained enough height to clear the top of the hangar, out of range of the gravel spraying from the skidding wheel of Gilbert Ford's bicycle. Their affronted screeching woke the little grizzle-coated terrier who had been sleeping in the shade of a broad canvas wing. Arthritic joints notwithstanding, Muggins leapt to her feet and bounded toward the boy, voicing her delight in a series of seagull-provoking yips.

"Uncle Shirley!" the boy cried, stumbling over the frame of the falling bike, but keeping his feet. He bent to greet the dog pawing at his knees, then asked, "Is that it?"

Shirley smiled to himself and wiped engine grease onto the rag hanging from the pocket of his cover-alls. "Sure is," he said, patting the pockmarked fuselage of his old Curtiss HS-2L with a nearly-clean hand. "Smoothest water landing you can make without your own feathers."

Gil rolled his eyes. "Not that old rubbish heap! The Cub!"

"Oh!" Shirley said, aping surprise. "You mean _that_?"

He gestured vaguely toward the edge of the landing strip, where a gleaming, chrome-yellow Piper J-3 Cub shone smugly in the August sunshine. Blunt wings stretched out either side of a rounded cabin painted that improbably primary shade, embellished along the sides with black racing stripes that ended in tiny zigzags of lightning. Perhaps these were meant to imply speed or agility. Paired with the Cub's eggy silhouette, the bolts conveyed only nervous energy. With a red nub in the middle of the propellor on its snub little nose, the Cub looked like nothing so much as a cartoon rabbit, poised to fly under the magical power of its fuzzy yellow ears.

" _That_ ," Gil scoffed. "Of course that!"

"Well then why did you ask?"

Gil ignored this and made for the Cub, eating up the distance with long, brisk strides that challenged Muggins to keep pace.

"Oh!" he moaned, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke the sunshine struts. "Hello, gorgeous."

"It's been here all summer," Shirley said, following his nephew unhurriedly. "Unlike some."

Gil groaned. "Dad made me work in his office. Two whole months! He said he wants me to learn about _Business_."

Shirley chuckled softly at the capital letter in the boy's tone. Ken Ford could try to make his golden-haired, spirited son into a Man of World, but first he'd have to get him to sit still for five minutes together. The only place Shirley had ever seen Gil completely attentive was in a cockpit. Two full months in Ken's office must have had him climbing the walls.

At the moment, Gil was fairly vibrating with excitement.

"Can I fly it? Please, Uncle Shirley, please?"

"You can fly _in_ it," Shirley said evenly.

Gil's face fell. "Oh, come on. I can fly! You say so all the time. I'm a born pilot!"

"This," Shirley said, resting a strong, brown hand on the cheerful fuselage, "is not a toy."

"And I'm not a child!" Gil protested. "I'll be 19 next month. Oh, please, Uncle Shirley, I'll be careful!"

Shirley shook his head, impervious to his nephew's wheedling appeal. "Today, I fly; you observe. If you pay attention, maybe tomorrow . . ."

"Oh, I will," Gil said, already moving toward the hangar in search of goggles and flight jacket, shedding his rucksack as he went.

When he was far enough away, Shirley allowed himself a smile. It was to good have him back.

* * *

Half an hour later, a forsaken Muggins watched Shirley and Gil lift clear of the runway, climbing up, up, up into the brilliant blue of a clear summer afternoon. Shirley felt a bit cramped so close to the instruments, with Gil's knobbly knees tucked up nearly under his elbows. Still, the salt breeze blew crisply through the Cub's open cabin, cooled by the sun-dazzled waves of Four Winds harbor, mirroring the limitless possibility of the cloudless sky.

The Cub did not fly fast and it did not fly high. Five minutes after takeoff, they were barely at 500 ft, but that was no matter. No hurry. Shirley had been flying the Cub all summer, giving lessons and tours to the renters and sometimes just leaving the world behind for a while. Every time he went up, alone or not, he heard Walt Whitman singing in his ear:

 _From Paumanok starting I fly like a bird,  
_ _Around and around to soar to sing the idea of all,  
_ _To the north betaking myself to sing there arctic songs,  
_ _To Kanada till I absorb Kanada in myself_

What would Whitman think of actual flight? Of this startling yellow absurdity hurtling through the heavens? Of this vast Canada? Shirley Blythe was not much of a one for yawping, but he resolved to sound one over the roofs of the world for good old Walt's sake next time he flew alone.

As the Cub swung out over the shore, Shirley spotted the unmistakable bulk of Bertie Shakespeare Drew's four black percherons, dark manes flying in the wind as they waded through the roiling surf. The storm that had pounded this coast three days past had long ago left the sky traceless, but the sea remembered. Waves crashed against the red cliffs down beyond the rock shore, sending plumes of foamy spray skyward, and even the beach-sea swirled and hissed, lapping at the horses' bellies as they dragged their traps through the swells. A storm like that tore the Irish moss from the underwater rocks and set it bobbing free in the churning sea. Then, the percherons would go to work, dredging it up from the tide in sopping traps so heavy that only the strongest animals could budge them. Bertie Shakespeare and his sons dried the stuff, baled it, and sent it off to a factory on the mainland where it had something improbable to do with canned food. They were beautiful animals, though, and Bertie was rightly proud of them.

Farther out over the harbor now and Shirley relaxed, setting the machine to cruise and looking back over his shoulder to check on Gil. His nephew flashed him a brilliant grin and a thumbs up, evidently unbothered by the cramped quarters. Shirley pulled the Cub into a lazy circle, letting it drift slow and wide over the water.

An energetic tap at his shoulder made Shirley cock his head to listen.

"Look!" Gil shouted over the whir of propellor and the rush of wind. "Carl!"

The boy gestured to starboard, indicating the distinctive green hull of the _Sweet Flag_ plowing the waves far below. Homeward bound, by the look of her.

 _Good. He shouldn't have gone out yesterday. Sea still unsettled. Blasted birds._

Shirley nodded back. Then, he dipped the Cub's nose and eased into a slow dive.

It wasn't a machine for aerial acrobatics, but it flew low and slow, perfect for buzzing by to say hello. Down and down, until they were barely 100 feet above the sea when they passed over the _Sweet Flag_. Carl must have waved because Gil was waving back, leaning so far out of the cabin that Shirley had to roll in the other direction to maintain equilibrium.

 _I'll call later._

Shirley turned toward the coast, aiming for the Four Winds light. From there, it was only a quick jaunt over to the now-mellow green house that Rilla and Ken had bought as a summer place after Cornelia Bryant had passed. They might have preferred to take over the old House of Dreams, but that abode was occupied year-round now, a retirement home for the happy couple who had named it nearly fifty years ago. Anne Blythe had teased that Gilbert would never stop working unless he were physically separated from the Ingleside telephone. Leslie had come back for the party, of course, staying in a comfortable hotel with Persis' family, but with Owen gone, she had been happy to turn the keys over to her old friends. Provided, she said, that they looked after the roses.

Shirley craned his neck as they passed over the House of Dreams. Yes, there was Mother, the bright circle of her broad straw hat unmistakable amidst the green and partifloral of her beloved garden. She looked up at the Cub's whine and there went Gil again, insisting on testing the limits of balance.

Over the red harbor roads and toward the Glen. Past Ingleside, where the Blythe girls had already hung buntings and canopies for tomorrow's festivities.

 _At least the storm came early. Rilla would have had a fit if it had ruined her party._

But time enough for all that tomorrow. For now, the Cub soared out over Rainbow Valley, over the manse, over the village. Farther on, its shadow fell over the neighborless little gray house on the Lowbridge Road before turning toward fields and woods and marshy places where reeds grew in thick, whispering stands. Home was down there somewhere, but they had broken free of its gravity, tethered only by the promise of a warm supper when sunset had put an edge on the nipping wind. But for now, the Cub sailed on, toward an indistinct horizon where the blue of sea and the blue of sky mingled, indistinguishable one from the other.

* * *

"Can I really fly it tomorrow?" Gil asked, knees bouncing so that they rattled the teacups on Shirley's kitchen table.

Shirley scooped a short stack of letters out of spilling range and onto a nearby chair. The mail was the only thing out of place in the one-room apartment: clean-swept and sparsely furnished, the single bookshelf bearing one green volume and a regimented row of back issues of _Aerial Age Weekly_ , the neat bed with corners tight enough to please both Susan and the RAF.

"That depends," Shirley answered, reaching down to scratch Muggins' ears as she sat beside him. "Tell me, what's a good cruising speed for that machine?"

"75 miles per hour," Gil answered without hesitation.

"And how high would you take it?"

"Oh, not over 1,000 feet. Though I notice you kept us very low today."

Shirley nodded. "And your RPMs at cruising would be . . ."

Gil squinted. "2150?"

"And on takeoff . . ."

"Lift the tail first. I know! I was listening!"

"Alright," Shirley conceded. "You pass."

"I can fly?"

"Tomorrow morning. Before the party. Be here at 8."

Gil's face split in the sort of grin native to toothpaste advertisements. He took another piece of shortbread from the plate in the center of the table and crammed it into his mouth.

Shirley buried his nose in his teacup to keep from grinning back. Gilbert Ford was entirely too pleased with himself already and it wouldn't do to praise him, even if Shirley had been the fawning sort.

"I read in the paper that the RAF is doing air defense tests," Gil said through a mouthful of crumbs. "Thousands of planes flying over Britain, just getting ready."

Shirley did not reply, glad of the shielding cup.

"Do you think there'll be another war, Uncle Shirley?"

"I hope not," Shirley replied. There was no ignoring the headlines, nor the none-too-reassuring reassurances broadcast over the radio. This wasn't like last time, when all the world had been ambushed by the guns of August. This time, it stalked them in the open, as a wolfpack circling a limping calf on the tundra, the inexorable noose closing no matter which way they dashed.

 _Another war._

"What was it like?" Gil asked, shining-eyed and breathless.

 _What was it like? Even if there were words, they wouldn't make any sense to him._

"I puked a lot."

"What?" Gil recoiled, not having expected any answer, let alone one so incongruous. But how could Shirley tell him anything but the baldest facts?

Shirley shrugged. "Every time I got in a fight — a real fight — I'd puke when it was over."

Gil wrinkled his nose. But it was not every day that Uncle Shirley talked about the War at all, and Gil was not about to give up the opportunity to find out whatever he could.

"I read about you in _Flying Aces_ ," he ventured.

Shirley snorted. "Was I Kerry Keene or Phineas Pinkham?"

"No, it was really you!" replied earnest Gil. "They publish real news, too, you know."

"Very old news, if I was in it."

"You were great," Gil breathed, gray-blue eyes alight.

"Was I?"

Gil appeared not to hear him. "They had your picture and everything. Thirty-four kills! You were a top-10 ace!"

"That's top-10 for Canada, not the whole RAF," Shirley demurred.

"Still!" Gil lolled theatrically over the tabletop. "I want to be just like you, Uncle Shirley."

"Don't let your father hear you say that," Shirley muttered.

"What? Why not?"

Shirley was brought up short. He did not often speak impulsively, and had to cast about for an acceptable reply to cover his mistake.

"You know why everyone thinks fighter pilots are young?" he asked.

"No. Why?"

"Because they don't tend to grow very old."

Gil scoffed.

"I imagine your parents have big plans for you," Shirley persisted. "Being like me isn't any part of that."

"But you were so brave."

There it was again. That hero-worship. Flattering, to be sure, but Shirley did not need flattery. And this sort of thinking needed to be quashed without mercy.

Shirley shook his head. "No," he said. "Listen to me, Gil, this is serious. Everyone thinks a great pilot is brave. But they're wrong. A great pilot is meticulous."

He paused, checking to be sure that Gil was paying proper attention. The blue-gray eyes were wide under their fringe of golden lashes; the boy hung on his every word.

Shirley spoke with grave deliberation, as if he could armor his nephew in good advice. "Every time you go up — every single time — you have to be in command of every detail. Aware of everything. Your surroundings. Your equipment. Your own body. You have to take risks, of course, but small ones. Well-considered. If you get reckless in a fight, everyone will talk about how brave you were while they're attending your funeral."

A flicker of fear crossed Gil's face at this last.

 _Good. He should be scared._

"That goes for ordinary flying, too," Shirley said, sitting back, arms folded casually over his chest. "Don't be brave. Be precise. Every time. Is that clear?"

Gil nodded, swallowing at the same time, so that he resembled a golden prince only recently ransomed from froghood.

"Right. Tomorrow morning then?" Shirley asked, rising to clear away the teacups.

"Tomorrow morning," Gil answered in the soberest tone in his register.

It wouldn't do to send him off hang-dog, though. He was a good kid. And there was no war. Not yet. Maybe he wouldn't need the warning.

Shirley turned back from the dishpan and clapped a broad hand to Gil's shoulder.

"You're a born pilot, Gil. And I'll make sure you're a well-trained one, too."

"Thanks, Uncle Shirley."

The boy bestowed a convulsive hug, just as he had when he was a freckle-faced child, spending his summers flying balsa-wood gliders and begging for a ride in the Curtiss. Shirley held him for a moment, hoping against hope that they would have many a summer yet to let him test his wings.

* * *

When Gil had disappeared through the door with a farewell pat for Muggins and a promise to return at eight o'clock sharp, Shirley turned back to the dish basin. He rinsed the tea things and put away the plate of shortbread. Everything tidy now. Except . . .

Shirley retrieved the pile of mail from the kitchen chair. There was little enough of it — some circulars and bills and a note requesting a bird's eye tour of the Island. Once, there might have been an unsigned postcard from Berlin or a pristine issue of _Der Eigene_ , useless to Shirley, who couldn't read a word of German. But it was the thought that counted. The last of those dispatches had arrived in 1934 — a postcard: _You were right. No explanation necessary._ At the time, Shirley had thought it was something to celebrate; five years of silence later, he could barely stand to imagine what it might really mean.

Shuffling to the bottom of the pile, Shirley drew out the only letter of any consequence. He should open it, but there was really no need.

Crossing to the telephone instead, he placed a call to the little gray house on the Lowbridge Road.

"Hello? Una? Yes, I'm fine. How are you? Listen, I saw Carl coming in when I was out over the harbor . . . No, that's alright, I didn't think he'd be home yet. I was just wondering: would it be alright if I came over for supper tonight? There's something I need to talk to him about . . . No, everything's fine . . . Yes . . . That sounds fine . . . Alright. I'll see you at six. Thanks."

Shirley hung up and sought the comfort of the old oak rocking chair that had stood so long by the window seat in the kitchen at Ingleside. Muggins trotted over and laid down before him, resting her graying muzzle on his foot. It was a small weight for so great a comfort, but it did not change the writing on the envelope. Sighing, Shirley ran a thumb over the eagle insignia in the corner:

RCAF: Royal Canadian Air Force.

* * *

Notes:

I've done a bunch of research for this story and will mention particular books once it becomes non-spoilery to name them. For now, I will cite:

Laurie E. Philpotts, _Memoirs of WWII: The True Stories of a Canadian Fighter Pilot_ (1990) (Philpotts was a young fighter pilot from New Brunswick who trained with the RCAF at Camp Borden.)

Paul Norman, _One of the Boys: Homosexuality in the [Canadian] Military During WWII_ (2010)


	28. Per Ardua

**Per Ardua**

* * *

August 31, 1939

* * *

 _And all ye men of tender heart,  
_ _Forgiving others, take your part,  
_ _O praise Him, Alleluia!  
_ _Ye who long pain and sorrow bear,  
_ _Praise God and on Him cast your care!  
_ _O praise Him, O praise Him!  
_ _Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!_

"All Creatures of Our God and King" (1919)  
adapted by William H. Draper from St. Francis of Assisi's "Canticle of the Sun" (1225)*

* * *

Every flat surface in Una's sunny yellow kitchen was crowded with puff pastry. This included the table, the draining board, the chopping block, and each of the four chairs, which held cooling trays at a precarious knee-height that had nearly ended in disaster twice already. The only exception was the stovetop, where Una stirred a fragrant filling of blueberry compote in her largest saucepan.

At forty-three, Una Meredith was much as she had been at twenty: small and bird-boned, with wistful blue eyes and unfashionably long, straight black hair that she wore in a braid coiled at the nape of her neck. Long ago, Mrs. Dr. Blythe had foretold that Una would "make a most lovable woman," and indeed she had.** She was well beloved by her family and her neighbors and particularly by the widows and orphans of the parish of St. Elizabeth, to whom she was a constant friend. Though always happiest in solitary prayer, Una could be counted on to set her hand to any task that needed doing, whether it be rocking a newborn, stitching a shroud, or spending a sweltering late-summer afternoon making 300 last-minute dessert canapés for Rilla Ford's twentieth anniversary party.

This had not been the original plan. Rilla had had her heart set on serving Susan Baker's famous wedding cake to her guests, but an exhaustive search of the Ingleside recipe cards and all Susan's scrupulously annotated cookbooks yielded nothing.

"She thinks I lost the recipe on purpose," Faith had groused yesterday, having escaped the flurry of activity at Ingleside for tea and sympathy at the little gray house. "As if I ever bake anything more complicated than biscuits. I don't think Susan ever wrote it down — you know how she liked to keep it secret. In any case, it's lost now and nothing to be done about it. That's what I told Rilla, and if she doesn't believe me, she can go jump in the harbor."

"What will you do for dessert?" Una had asked, knowing very well where all this was headed.

Thus, Una found herself stirring blueberry compote when the telephone rang on the afternoon before the party. She turned down the heat under her berries and picked her way gingerly through the minefield of pastry, expecting that it would be Faith with yet another "one last thing," or perhaps Amelia Newgate checking in. Therefore, the masculine voice on the other end of the line came as something of a surprise.

"Hello? Shirley?" she said. "I hope you're well . . . Yes, I'm fine . . . Oh, did you? He isn't home yet . . .Well of course you're welcome for supper any time. Is anything the matter? . . . You're sure? . . . I'm just finishing up some pastry for Rilla's party. There seems to have been some trouble about dessert. But I should have supper ready for six o'clock if that's alright . . . I'm sure Carl will be home by then. I'll tell him we're expecting you . . . Alright, see you then."

Returning the receiver to its cradle, Una frowned at the telephone. There had been something in Shirley's voice that had been . . . well, not nervous — that wasn't Shirley's way — but something was . . . off. Not the party; Shirley wouldn't care about that one way or another. Perhaps it was just the weather — she had been anxious enough herself when Carl had declared his intention to make a multi-day trip in the aftermath of that terrible storm. But Shirley had seen _Sweet Flag_ coming in, so he knew Carl was alright . . .

It was useless to speculate. Carl would be home soon and Shirley would come after, and in the meantime there were several hundred pastry shells to pack away. Una sang to herself as she filled tin after tin, not the psalms of her childhood, but some of the hymns she had been teaching to the primer class at St. Elizabeth's Sunday School.

Thus, Carl found her rocking an empty Crisco container and starting in on "All Creatures of Our God and King" when he came into the kitchen, mud-spattered and beaming at her choice. He had not picked up much of Una's theology over the years, but was susceptible to St. Francis of Assisi.

Like his sister, Carl Meredith had entered middle age gently, with still-thick hair that remained golden-brown, if perhaps a bit lighter than it had been, and laugh lines that did not fully disappear when his face was in repose. He had avoided the soft and expanding middle that had begun to catch up with Jerry, in part because of the rigor of his field work and in part because Una's table tended toward economy, rather than toward Nan's indulgent confections, current appearances notwithstanding.

Carl dropped his rumpled rucksack at the door and stepped behind his sister, wrapping sweat-stained arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder as he added a serviceable harmony:

 _Dear mother earth, who day by day,  
_ _Unfoldest blessings on our way,  
_ _O praise Him, Alleluia!  
_ _The flowers and fruits that in thee grow,  
_ _Let them His glory also show,  
_ _O praise Him, O praise Him,  
_ _Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia!_

Una broke off there, hoping she might encourage Carl to change out of his salt-damp work clothes before he endangered the remaining pastries.

"Had a good trip?" she asked, covering her tin.

Carl gave her a stubbly peck on the cheek and desisted, if only to filch a pastry from the counter and munch it, grinning. "Excellent. I think some of the seabird populations are finally starting to recover from the Eel Grass Blight of '31."

Carl was, without a doubt, the only person on the Island who remembered 1931 primarily as a hard year for the eel grass. But Una was used to the oddities of his attention by now and said only, "Do try to eat the broken ones, won't you?"

He obliged, popping another puff into his mouth and grinning when Una shook her head at him.

"I thought you'd be in Lowbridge this time of day," Carl said through crumbs.

"I meant to be. But Faith was here yesterday tearing her hair out over the party, so I told her I'd take over dessert. Amelia is covering the Altar Guild duties for me. Oh, and Shirley's coming to supper tonight."

Carl brightened. "Is he? That's good. I saw him out flying with Gil when I was coming in. I'd have thought Faith would have shanghaied him into helping up at Ingleside."

"Has to catch him first, doesn't she?"

"Ah, well, that explains why he was out over the water," Carl said, taking a third. "Nan and Jerry here yet?"

"They were due at the manse this morning. I was planning on stopping by after supper to see the girls."

"Great! I'll come, too."

"No, that's alright," Una said, hurrying to gather what puffs she could from the counter before they all disappeared. "You stay. I'll go."

"Una," Carl sighed, "you don't have to run out of your own house every time Shirley walks through the door."

"I know. But he mentioned that he had something in particular to discuss with you."

"Didn't say what it was, though?"

"No."

"Well, he certainly doesn't need another plane. A thousand dollars! To go joyriding with Gil, looking like a flying daffodil!"

Una smiled. "You should tell him that."

"What makes you think I haven't?" Carl broke off a piece of his fourth puff and dangled it in front of his jacket pocket until a wee, twitching nose poked out to investigate.

"Carl!" Una exclaimed. "We said no more rats!"

"It's not a rat," Carl said, indignant. "It's a mink!"

Una's eyes widened. "A mink?! You mean a vicious little weasel?"

"Shhh. You'll hurt his feelings."

Over the years, the little gray house had played host to a rotating menagerie of snakes, turtles, and rodents of every description. These were not properly pets, only occasional companions, particularly after the advent of Muggins. The rat ban dated to a particularly memorable Sunday memorialized in perpetuity by the bloodstains that never quite came out of the hall carpet.

"You'll have to get rid of it," Una said resolutely. "Even if Shirley doesn't bring the dog tonight, she'll be here on Sunday."

"I know," Carl said fondly as the mink sniffed disdainfully at his bloodless offering. "But I couldn't leave him out at the bird colony. He'd wreak merry havoc among the chicks, and with the population still recovering . . ."

Una waved her hand. "Just get rid of it."

"Don't you want to pet him?" Carl asked, scooping the lithe body out of his pocket. "He's so very soft."

Una acquiesced, agreeing that the mink was, indeed, beautifully soft, though also rather sharp-toothed and decidedly inconvenient. Satisfied with the justice of this assessment, Carl went to set his companion free on the shore of Pelham's Pond, promising that he would wash up on his return. That left Una to her packing and her singing, the joyful tune soaring above the melancholy words as she scooped blueberry compote into a jar.

* * *

After dinner, when Una had gone to the manse and the dishes had been returned to their rack on the wall, Carl and Shirley sat down to tea and a plate of those unfortunate puff pastries rejected as insufficiently symmetrical to appear at Rilla Ford's twentieth anniversary party.

To the unpracticed eye, Shirley might have appeared to be sipping his tea with equanimity. Carl, whose eye was expert in many things, not least among them the mannerisms of Shirley Blythe, was not deceived. There was a certain pattern of movement — the strong, brown thumb tracing along the indigo scrollwork on the bowl of the cup, _curve up, curve down_ , and back again — that never spelled anything but trouble. Carl had never called Shirley's attention to this particular tic. It was a useful omen and if he had known that it gave him away with such astonishing accuracy, he certainly would have squelched it through sheer force of will.

"How are the birds?" Shirley asked placidly.

Carl pursed his lips. "They're fine. I was worried about the fledglings, but they seem to have weathered the storm alright."

"That's good. Sea not too rough?"

"Did you really invite yourself over to discuss the weather?"

"No," Shirley admitted.

 _Curve up, curve down._

"Well, out with it then," Carl said. "If it's another plane, I don't know where you're going to put it. You can only fly one at a time. And between the Curtiss and the homebuilts and that lemon monstrosity . . ."

"It's not a plane. Not exactly."

"Not _exactly_?"

"You've been following the news?"

Who hadn't? Impossible to avoid, even if you spent a good amount of time among the birds.

"I try not to, actually," Carl said, not quite able to maintain the appearance of nonchalance as he sipped his tea.

"But you have?"

Carl clicked his cup crisply into its saucer. "Which bit? The Germans getting restless on the Polish border? The Soviets negotiating a pact? The Brits practicing blackouts? Prime Minister King promising that there's absolutely, positively nothing to see here, no siree?"

Shirley chewed his lip and sighed. "Yes. All of that."

"What about it?"

"There's a war coming. A big one."

Everyone knew it; no one said it. Trust Shirley not to care about the rules. He was still looking down, examining the dregs of his tea as if hoping to read the leaves. That, more than the imminent prospect of war, kindled the familiar flutterings of fear on Carl's periphery.

"Are you worried about Gil?" he asked quietly.

"Of course."

Carl placed a reassuring hand on Shirley's shoulder, the answering warmth steadying his own nerves. "He won't go. Rilla and Ken won't let him."

The knot under Carl's hand did not relax in response to his caress. "Do you think our parents wanted to let us go?" Shirley murmured.

"We know better than they did. Gil won't go."

"I don't see how anyone can stop him. If it comes to war, they'll all go. Gil and Sam and Wally when he's old enough . . ."

"No," Carl said. "Jem and Faith won't allow it. They've given enough. We all have."

In the silence, the small, everyday sounds of the house expanded to fill the available space. A board creaked somewhere upstairs; wind rattled the metal chimney pipe behind the stove; Muggins snuffled on the hearth rug as she chased squirrels in her sleep.

The muscles of Shirley's arm moved, not toward an embrace, but toward his pocket. The envelope was folded in half, but he smoothed it as he laid it on the table between them.

Did the Royal Canadian Air Force have to use that particular insignia on its letterhead? It seemed unaccountably cruel to read _Per Ardua Ad Astra_ under eagle's wings in this moment.

"What's that?" Carl asked, pulling his hand back to himself.

Either Shirley was choosing his words carefully or time was slowing down. Possibly both.

"They need instructors. To teach the boys how to fly."

"Well I don't think Gil's quite ready to teach yet, is he?" Carl said, the feeble joke crumpling before the relentless onslaught of the truth.

"No."

Shirley looked up then, giving eye contact for the first time since Una had left the house. Brown eyes deep and soft and not laughing at all.

Carl was used to fear. It came at odd times, unbidden, untethered to circumstance. His mind would sizzle and flare, reacting to dangers that didn't exist, stealing his breath and jolting his heart into a wild gallop. When that happened, Carl knew to put himself somewhere safe — under the pear trees or in a little nook in Rainbow Valley — and let it pass, breathing in and out until his brain caught on that there was no need to panic. He didn't know what to do when his brain was right.

"You can't be serious," he said, voice faint with disbelief.

"Someone needs to teach them."

"Well, they can find someone else."

"There aren't really many Canadians with my experience flying in combat . . ."

"Sure there are!" Carl said, leaning away from the envelope. "Plenty of 'em. Only they're all rotting in the ground in France, aren't they! You can just tell the Air Force you're not interested."

"I won't be going overseas. Only to Ontario . . ."

"Only Ontario?"

"Yes."

"That's how they'll get you in the door. But Hitler puts a toe over the line in Poland and you'll be off for Round Two with the rest."

"I'm just going to be teaching . . . "

Carl sat back in his chair, amazed. "Wait," he said, scrutinizing the misery writ plain across Shirley's face. "You've already decided. You're not here to ask me. You're just here to _inform_ me."

"Carl . . ."

"The Air Force! Again! You've got to be joking!"

"Kit . . ."

"Why do they want you anyway? Aren't you a bit old for them?"

It was maddening, really, the way the little spark of humor changed Shirley's whole face without moving a muscle. Most people said that Jem was the one who could charm honey from the bees, but that was only because Shirley couldn't be bothered with most people.

"Am I so decrepit?"

He wasn't. Shirley had turned 40 in the spring, and even an unbiased observer would have agreed that he was every bit as fit as he had been in his RAF days. Always tall and broad-shouldered, he had solidified over the years, losing whatever boyish looseness had survived the War. The taciturnity that had seemed incongruous in youth had matured into a stately reserve that made his hoarded smiles all the more precious by contrast. Sitting in a darkened Kingsport movie house listening to a hundred patrons sigh over Errol Flynn in green technicolor tights, Carl had smiled with secret satisfaction, knowing he needed no flimsy Hollywood fantasy. It was difficult to say whether Shirley was more striking emerging grease-stained from under an engine, or dripping in the surf off some lonely beach, or sitting tensely at the table in Una's kitchen, tight and terse and distressingly able-bodied.

"Don't do this," Carl implored. "You did your bit. More than. Don't go back."

Shirley shook his head. "Gil's going. They all are. I can't protect them, but I can teach them what I know. Maybe get them out of a scrape. Bring them back whole."

"Nobody comes back whole," Carl muttered miserably.

Shirley did not try to refute the obvious. Instead, he rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and said, "It's only Ontario."

"It's already decided?"

"Yes."

Carl could feel every thread in his shirt, the soft cotton turned to burrs that pricked his skin with ten thousand needle-points of heat. He hadn't bothered to put on a tie, but there was still a knot around his throat, cinching his collar tighter and tighter.

"When do you leave?" he asked.

"I'm supposed to report to Camp Borden in two weeks."

"Just two weeks?"

"I'm sorry."

"Then don't go. You're not being conscripted, are you? Just don't go."

A feeble plea. If Shirley had decided that something had to be done, no matter how dirty or disagreeable, he would do it in his cool, business-like mood, and no one, not even Carl, could stop him.*** Stubborn ass.

"I have to protect the line," Shirley said, asking for understanding if not for permission. "I couldn't live with myself otherwise."

Carl's heart still rebelled, not having had time to grow reconciled. Even knowing what it meant to go to war, he could still say with equanimity that it was easier to give yourself than it was to give someone else. But there was _a Call greater and more insistent than the call of love. Shirley had listened to it, and Carl must not add to the bitterness of his sacrifice_.****

"Shall I call you Flight Commander, then?" he asked, trying for a smile that sputtered and died before it rose to his lips.

Shirley rubbed a broad hand across the back of his neck. "It's . . . um . . . Squadron Leader, actually."

"Squadron Leader? What's that in Army terms?"

"Major."

"Fancy."

"Carl . . ."

Carl pushed back from the table and stood. "I think I need to go for a walk."

"Can I come?"

The real answer was _no_. Carl knew he needed space, sky, trees, not human companionship. But time, always precious, had suddenly become much dearer. There would be long days of nothing but empty air, weeks, or months, or years, or even . . .

"You're leaving," he said, face crumpling.

"Only for a little while."

Carl's scoff came out half a sob. "Let me guess. The war will be over by Christmas?"

"I'm not going to war, Kit. I'm going to Ontario."

"You're leaving."

Shirley reached out and settled a hand on Carl's hip.

"Not at this very moment."

The shirt came untucked as Shirley pulled him closer, just a little at first and then more as he slid a cool, smooth hand around Carl's back. Distant trees lost their appeal as the lacerating pins separated from Carl's skin, pulling away with his rucked-up hem, then vanishing altogether, dropping forgotten to the kitchen floor. The plate of pastries followed, crashing in a shower of china shards and flaky crumbs that were still scattered across the tiles when Una came home to a sleeping house hours later.

* * *

Notes:

I'm In WWII, the RCAF still shared a motto with the RAF: _Per Ardua ad Astra_ (Through Adversity to the Stars)

*Draper lost three sons in WWI and translated/paraphrased St. Francis's "Canticle of the Sun" in 1919.

** _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 26: "Miss Cornelia Gets a New Point of View"

*** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 25: "Shirley Goes"

**** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 14: "The Valley of Decision"


	29. Many Happy Returns

**Many Happy Returns**

* * *

September 1, 1939

* * *

 _Defenceless under the night_  
 _Our world in stupor lies_  
 _Yet, dotted everywhere,_  
 _Ironic points of light_  
 _Flash out wherever the Just_  
 _Exchange their messages:_  
 _May I, composed like them_  
 _Of Eros and of dust,_  
 _Beleaguered by the same_  
 _Negation and despair,_  
 _Show an affirming flame._

-W.H. Auden, "September 1, 1939"

* * *

Shirley leaned against an oak tree near the Glen St. Mary train station, reducing a stick to curled shavings with his pocketknife. He'd carried the knife for more than twenty years, ever since he won it in a poker game off of one of his roommates. Dwyer? Durban? Something like that. Whatever his name, he'd gone out on a training flight one day and never come back. It was a good knife, with a little folding corkscrew that had come in handy more than once, though the wooden handle had begun to shrink away from the blade. Well, they were none of them as young as they used to be.

The noon train from Charlottetown pulled into the station, wheezing to a stop and disgorging several passengers onto the platform. Shirley looked up from his whittling, searching until he spied a tall woman, trim and square-shouldered, wearing a smart, forest-green blouse over wide-legged trousers. Her short red curls were threaded with silver under a brown fedora tilt and she carried a leather valise. She spotted him before he reached her and opened her arms for a hug.

"Shirley!" Di cried, pulling him in close. "You're looking very handsome."

"You too," he said, smirking. "Trousers? In Glen St. Mary?"

"Well I was hardly going to buy a dress just for this," she snorted. "Syl offered to lend me one, but she's so much shorter that it would have been a scandal either way. Besides, she's forever wearing pink and I never can."

Di took Shirley's arm and they started toward the Glen street, disregarding any odd looks from passersby.

"So no Sylvia this weekend?" Shirley asked.

"No." Di said crisply. "She's delighted to have a quiet weekend at home. Christmas here is more than enough for her. How's Carl?"

Shirley grimaced. "Oh, you know Carl. Worrying."

"I don't doubt it," Di said in sober tones. "The news these days . . ."

She shook her head as if to clear it, but there was no banishing the gathering stormclouds. Even here, in sunny Glen St. Mary, they passed a dozen people hidden behind morning editions of the _Charlottetown Guardian_ — LONDON VIEWS SITUATION WITH DEEPEST GRAVITY — and a small crowd that had gathered around the radio at Miller Douglas's store.**

"Odd day for a party, isn't it?" Shirley observed grimly.

"And how is the happy couple?" Di asked through a determined smile.

"Well, Ken hasn't shown up at my door with the Mounties yet, so I assume they're busy."

"He's not still on about Gil spending time with you, is he?"

Shirley gave a derisive snort. "Still afraid I'm going to corrupt his precious boy."

Di squeezed his arm. "You did, too. You made him fall in love with those death traps of yours."

"I don't think it's the planes Ken's worried about."

"Well he should be," Di sniffed.

They walked on through the Glen street, passing the post office and Link Drew's little lunch counter, nodding greetings to Fred Arnold and his teenage son. Beyond the Glen Pond, the street began its ascent to Ingleside, where a great white tent loomed among the ancient hardwoods and the hum of merry voices floated on the gentle breeze. The whole family was up there, along with their friends and neighbors, and there might not be another quiet moment.

"Wait a minute, Di," Shirley said, halting abruptly at the bottom of the lane.

She blinked her confusion, but paused, alert at the fervor of his tone. "What is it, love?"

 _No sense in sugarcoating._

"I . . . I've been called up. To the training base at Camp Borden. I leave for Ontario in two weeks."

Di's eyes were very round and very green, her intake of breath sharp and audible. "You can't mean . . . you aren't going back into the army?"

"The Air Force, actually," he muttered.

"Oh, Shirley . . . _no_."

"They need flight instructors."

She caught his hand and squeezed, exhaling through her nose until she was calmer. "It was never supposed to happen again," she murmured.

"I know."

"The last war's babies are barely old enough . . ."

"I know."

"You haven't told Mother, have you?"

Shirley shook his head. "I thought . . . maybe after the party."

Di's lips twisted in sympathy. "Afraid she'll be angrier than Carl?"

It was a feeble attempt to lighten the moment, but Shirley stretched out his hand for the lifeline. "I doubt that's possible."

"Oh, Shirley." Di's hand on his cheek was soft but firm, a caress and a brace all at once. It wasn't disappointment in her voice, but something more resolute, a grim determination to face the inevitable. It might very well have been the tone she used to shepherd mothers through deliveries that would not end well.

"It's only Ontario," he protested feebly.

Di shook her head and patted his cheek forcefully, stopping just short of a slap. "Had much success with that line of argument yet, have you?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

"I just wanted you to know."

Di smiled sadly, but the shock had worn off and it was down to business as usual. Good old Di. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" she asked.

Shirley could have said no, he could handle this himself. After all, things had been alright with Mum and Dad lately, hadn't they? He'd even volunteered to go down to the old House of Dreams this past spring to help Mum repair the shell-lined paths in the garden, and that had gone alright. Still, Di always seemed to know what to say to them, and it couldn't hurt to have her by his side.

"Maybe stay after the party with me? When I tell them?"

Di hefted her valise into view. "I'm staying overnight with Faith and Jem," she said. "Not going anywhere."

"Thanks, Di."

She squared her padded shoulders and tossed her head briskly. "Alright, flyboy," she said. "Are you ready for Rilla's twentieth anniversary party?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

With a nod and a determined stride, they walked hand-in-hand toward Ingleside, prepared to face whatever the day might bring.

* * *

The magnificent old hardwoods of Ingleside were at the height of their late-summer glory, lush with dark green canopies that shaded the gaily dressed crowd. Victoria Ford had helped Jemmy and Cecilia Blythe festoon the boughs with crepe streamers and balloons, and bedecked the white buffet tent with a hand-painted banner reading, "Many Happy Returns!" Rilla and Ken, beaming in silk voile and seersucker, stood nearby, greeting Mary Douglas with cheek kisses and exclamations of delight. All of the original wedding guests had been invited, along with the spouses and children they had accumulated in the intervening decades. Shouts of youthful laughter from Rainbow Valley floated up the lawn accompanied by the ever-so-faint tinkle of fairy bells. Closer to the house, the eldest of the post-war babies flirted and flounced, giggling into their glasses of iced lemonade while their parents and grandparents howled over re-told tales and gasped at the distilled gossip of half a lifetime.

Escorting Di toward the veranda, Shirley looked for Carl and found him under the star-leafed horse chestnut, chatting with Bruce and a heavily pregnant Agnes. Beyond, Jerry and Nan's girls flitted between the trees like a flock of brightly colored raptors while their parents helped Faith and Jem carry laden platters from the kitchen to the buffet table. Nearby, Wally Blythe danced attendance on Zoe Maylock, the flaxen-haired belle of Lowbridge, whose presence at his side was something of a victory for the gangly, red-headed lad. It was widely known that his grandparents were not enthusiastic about the match, perhaps out of loyalty to Dr. Parker, whose grandson had been unceremoniously jilted by the fair Miss Matlock last summer. There had been rumors that one Mr. Gilbert Ford of Toronto had had something or other to do with that unfortunate business, but Shirley had never asked and Gil had never told. Either way, Gil was nowhere in sight and Wally appeared to be delighted with his companion, so what did it matter?**

Shirley and Di climbed the veranda steps toward a circle of elderly revelers who were quite as giddy as their progeny. Their approach seemed to remind John Meredith of an urgent engagement elsewhere, but he was hardly missed in the clamor of greeting.

"Di!" Mother exclaimed, hurrying across the porch with all the verve that seventy-four could muster on an arthritic ankle. "Darling, we've missed you!"

"Sorry I couldn't get away earlier," Di said as they embraced. "Babies have notoriously inconvenient timing."

"I recommend retirement," said Dr. Blythe, greeting his daughter with a kiss. "No midnight calls. Best sleep I've had since I was a baby myself."

"I wanted to take the phone out entirely," said Mother. "Drastic measures, you know. Even moving out of Ingleside didn't convince him to stop entirely."

"Oh, I've hung up my stethoscope," he objected, ruffling his steel-gray curls. "I just give a little free advice here and there."

"By which he means that any trip to the post office invariably turns into an impromptu clinic," Mother said, patting Di's hand and leading her toward the group, where she was engulfed in salutations from Rosemary Meredith and Aunt Leslie and Aunt Diana and Uncle Fred and Auntie Phil and the Reverend Jo. Shirley thought he just might be able to slip away . . .

"So Gil tells me you let him fly your new plane," Dad said jovially.

"Ah . . . yep," Shirley replied. "This morning."

"How'd he do?"

"Well, we're both still alive," Shirley said noncommittally.

"He gave me the impression that it went very well."

Dad didn't give a fig about flying. But he was making an effort to converse, and Shirley reminded himself that he didn't have to freeze him out. _He's trying_ , said the tiny Carl on Shirley's shoulder. _You could meet him halfway_.

"It did go well," Shirley said, consciously relaxing. "He's very good. Intuitive. He needs a good scare or two to make sure he's always as careful as he should be, but he'll be better than I am someday."

Shirley was confused by his father's dazzling, chuckle-laced grin. Had he said something funny?

"Would it surprise you," his father said, slapping him on the shoulder with a still-strong hand, "to know that that's exactly what I used to say about Jem when he was a kid?"

"Jem?" Shirley asked, brow quirked.

"That he was a natural at medicine, but he needed a good scare to make him careful."

It did surprise him. In sync with Dad?

"Did he get it?" Shirley asked.

A shadow passed over the hazel eyes, dimming their sparkle, though they still shone.

"He came home careful."

Shirley looked out over the lawn, scanning until he spotted Gil, golden crown thrown back in merriment as he joked with Sam Blythe and Jims Anderson.

He almost said, _at least he came back_.

But truth be told, he didn't want to hear what Dad might have to say about that.

* * *

Lunch was served, but only after the assembled guests gathered 'round to witness Rilla and Ken renew their vows under a trellis of late-summer roses, fragrant and drooping under their own blood-red weight. Shirley retreated to the fringe of the crowd and lit a cigarette. After all, they were already married, weren't they? Wasn't once enough?

But the ceremony was mercifully short and soon the renewlyweds were leading their jubilant guests to the buffet, where they loaded their plates with flaky biscuits and chicken salad, tomato pickles and crustless sandwiches, dressed greens and creamy custards.

Shirley took spartan helpings, not feeling equal to the festivities. He wasn't sure where to sit, either. The family had retired to one of the long tables, with the older crowd taking up the lower end while the various Blythes and Merediths of his own generation found seats below the bride and groom. Even Una had been convinced to stop running back and forth to the kitchen long enough to take a chair between Faith and Di. Rather than commit to a seat, Shirley stood beside a nearby tent pole, close to the table if not quite at it.

"We'll have to do this all again next year," Rilla sighed, "for Mother and Dad's 50th."

"Fiftieth?" Dr. Blythe called down the table. "Impossible! I'm not a day over forty!"

The company rewarded this jest with rather too much over-bright laughter while Dr. Blythe met his own bride's exasperation with a twinkling grin.

"Our fiftieth anniversary was lovely," said Aunt Diana, reaching for Uncle Fred's hand. "The children treated us to dinner at the White Sands hotel. Small Anne Cordelia even wrote a little poem to commemorate the occasion."

"I forgot all about ours," Auntie Phil admitted. "I would have missed it entirely, except that it was the same day as a concert to raise money toward a new furnace for the church. Jo had the children's choir learn 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart' and presented me with fifty chrysanthemums."

Nan turned starry eyes toward Jerry. "It's hard to believe it's seventeen years for us."

Jerry pursed his lips and patted his waistcoat. "Seventeen? Are you sure about that?"

Nan poked him smartly, provoking a round of indulgent chuckles. "Of course I am. You graduated Law School in '22 and we got married that May. Seventeen years."

There was something mischievous in Jerry's smirk as he caught his wife's hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "Oh, well," he said. "I never was any good at maths. I could have sworn it was twenty. As they say, _ipsum matrimonium_."

Nan gave him a warning look, but he only chuckled and leaned over his potato salad to kiss her on the cheek. Shirley was quite certain he caught a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he looked, Carl was absorbed in his green beans, eye fixed resolutely on his plate.

"Your wedding was lovely, Nan," Rilla smiled. "I have one of the photos framed in my parlor at home so I can always remember us all as happy as we were that day. I wanted to make Susan's wedding cake for today, to remember her by, but no one knows the recipe."

That was news to Shirley, but far be it for him to contradict the bride.

"Whose idea was it to throw daisies?" Ken asked. "That's what I remember from that day — your daisy tunnel and cheering when you kissed on the bridge."

 _Carl in his groomsman's tailcoat, leading Di through a foxtrot, a stolen moment under the candling horse chestnut, a soft brush of sleeve against sleeve and some blather about castles and monsters . . ._

"All credit to my best man," Jerry said, raising his lemonade in salute to Jem. "A true romantic at heart."

"Do you ever regret not having a wedding, Faith?" Rilla asked earnestly.

Faith, who had just put a rather large forkful of chicken into her mouth, seemed caught between chewing and choking. She pressed a napkin over her lips to swallow, all the time looking across the table at Jem with her hilarity barely bottled.

"I'm fairly certain I did have a wedding," she said when she could speak.

"But I mean a _proper_ wedding. With bridesmaids and cake and dancing . . ."

"What do you say, Jem?" Faith asked, one honey-brown brow arched in challenge. "Do you wish we had waited any longer?"

Jem's own incredulous laughter was infectious, plunging most of the table into a round of side-splitting mirth. Even Shirley, still standing by the tent pole with his plate in hand, cracked a smile.

It was short-lived.

Before the company could muster another round of do-you-remembers, there was a commotion up by the house.

"It's happening!" came a boyish shout that struck Shirley's heart like a driven icicle.

All attention pivoted toward the veranda, where Gil Ford leaned over the rail with Sam and Wally and Jims, shouting, "It just came over the radio! Germany has invaded Poland!"

 _Beneath the blinking eye of the Four Winds light, Shirley had danced enough to throw off any suspicion, enduring the company of Irene Howard and Ethel Reese and a put-upon Miranda Pryor. He didn't dare seek Carl out overtly, but suspected he might be in the lighthouse kitchen with Una, pulling taffy with the others who couldn't or wouldn't dance. Shirley was Una's escort, wasn't he? And who could fault him checking in on her?_

 _He had only just made his way to the door when Jack Elliott pushed past him, brandishing a folded Charlottetown newspaper and announcing to the room, "England declared war on Germany today." Outside, Ned Burr's fiddle had stopped and a low moan rose from the gulf, the presage of a storm already on its way up the Atlantic. Shirley looked across the crowded, buzzing room and found Carl easily enough, staring back at him, both blue eyes startled wide.***_

The boys made their way across the lawn and into the tent.

"The war's started!" Wally said, his voice cracking on the awful word.

Jem cleared his throat, all his mirth lost. "Has England made a formal declaration?"

"Not yet," Sam said. "But the CBC says that Britain and France have mobilized, and Parliament has been summoned for six o'clock this evening."****

"Then we'll just have to wait and see what they decide," his grandfather said with a desperate look at his own eldest son.

"Oh, they'll declare war," Gil Ford said, face alight. "They have to."

There was a general muttering, punctuated by cries of despair.

 _There had been light surprise and idle interest in the lighthouse kitchen, but few had realized the import of the message — fewer still had realized that it meant anything to them. The fiddle started again, and soon nearly everyone was chattering just as they had been before. Walter had turned pale and left the room, but he was one of the few._

 _Shirley fought his way through the throng til he reached Carl's side. "A war?" he asked, disbelieving._

 _"Not for us, I don't think," said Carl, who was still two months shy of seventeen. "Do you suppose Jerry will go? And Jem?"_

 _"I guess so," Shirley shrugged. "Jem always said he wanted to be a soldier. Don't see how anyone could stop him."_

"Please!" Ken Ford said, standing and calling out in a commanding voice. "We don't know anything for certain yet. I would ask everyone to keep calm and wait until we have definite news."

"But Dad . . ." Gil protested, breaking off at the look of warning in his father's eye.

"There's no reason to rush into anything," Jem agreed, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ken. "We'll know what there is to know soon enough."

"Do you think they'll call for volunteers, Dad?" Sam asked.

Jem's eyes fluttered shut for a moment and Shirley saw the gray shadow of age fall across him for the first time. "I hope not, Sam."

"Well, if they do, I'm for the RCAF," Gil said, bowling over any objections. "I can fly as well as anybody, can't I Uncle Shirley?"

Shirley had no wish to be drawn into this conversation in any way, but was transfixed by the score of heads that swiveled to the spot where he stood.

"It's not my place to say," he said quietly.

"Fiddlesticks!" Gil shot back.

"Gilbert!" Rilla warned, but her son ignored her.

"You know flying better than anyone," Gil said, half-accusingly. "Why, if they call men 18 to 45 like they did before, you'll go again yourself, won't you?"

The flurry of admonishment from parents and grandparents alike gave Shirley cover to dart a glance toward the place where Carl had been sitting a moment ago. His chair was empty, and Shirley caught a fleeting glimpse as he disappeared through the back flap of the tent, headed toward Rainbow Valley. Shirley licked his lips, but remained still and silent. When he did not answer, an awkward silence expanded among the company like a chilled bubble waiting for someone prod it.

"Shirley?" his mother asked at last.

 _The week after he had turned eighteen, he had sat on the edge of the table in the living room, swinging his jangling legs, and asked permission to go._

 _"I can get into the flying-corps. What say, Dad?"_

 _His father's hands had shaken as he folded up a powder, and his mother's face had gone the same flat white it was now.*****_

Shirley looked to Di for a single nod of solidarity.

"I . . ." he stuttered, unaccustomed to having the undivided attention of the gathering. "I . . . already got called up. I'm to report to Camp Borden on the 14th."

* * *

Notes:

*The archives of the _Charlottetown Guardian_ (back to 1890) are available for free at islandnewspapers dot ca.

** _The Blythes are Quoted_ , "An Uncommon Woman"

***bits from _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 3: "Moonlit Mirth" and chapter 4: "The Piper Pipes"

****You can listen to the announcement broadcast by the CBC on September 1, 1939 on the cbc dot ca website.

 _*****Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 25: "Shirley Goes"

I changed the cover image for this story, wanting something a bit brighter (though I recognize that it's still small and hard to see). It's a little 1930s Piper Cub promotional matchbook I picked up recently.


	30. Some Quiet Island

**Some Quiet Island**

* * *

September 4-12, 1939

* * *

 _Therefore release me and depart on your way._

\- Walt Whitman, "Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand"

* * *

Shirley and his nephews spent all day Monday flying, just as they had the day before that, Sabbath or no. There was so little time. Gil was going back to Toronto tomorrow to start his course at the University. He had been eager to abandon his academic plans, but his parents had insisted he stay the course and Shirley wouldn't permit any bellyaching about it in his hearing. There was no call for volunteers just yet, and besides, the kid was underestimating just how much of his early RCAF training would be spent hunched over an algebra book. Might as well start the maths at college.

Not that there was any doubt that the call would come. Monday's _Charlottetown Guardian_ trumpeted the news in thick, black capitals: BRITAIN AT WAR. The first Canadian casualties were reported just below: the passenger liner _Athenia_ , bound from Liverpool to Montreal with 1,400 souls aboard, most of them Canadians, Americans, and Jewish refugees, had been torpedoed off the coast of Scotland.* The call would come, and soon.

"You did some good flying today," Shirley said to the three boys hanging on his every word. "I won't have any time to give you more lessons after this, but I want to talk to each of you individually in the office. Alright?"

They nodded, solemn as he had ever seen any of them. Well, it was a solemn moment.

"Wally first," Shirley said, and led the way.

*/*/*

"Wally . . ." Shirley began as he settled into the chair in the waiting area, not quite sure how to put things diplomatically.

"Aw, gee, Uncle Shirley," Wally said, grinning crookedly under ginger freckles. "I'm no flier. No need to tell me what I already know."

Relieved, Shirley returned the boy's smile. Really, Wally flew with all the grace of a duck on dry land, and it was a weight off his mind to know that he need not crush a dream.

"I've been thinking the Navy might suit me," Wally said. "And they'll accept me now — no waiting til I turn 18."

Shirley shook his head. "I've got nothing against the Navy, Wally. I think you'll do fine there. But wait til you're 18 just the same. This is all very hard on your parents. And who knows," he gritted his teeth, "maybe this will all be over by the spring."

"That's why I've got to go now!" Wally protested, green eyes wide and starry. "I don't want to miss out!"

Shirley motioned the kid back into his seat. God, had they been this young when the last war started? Younger, even. Hard to imagine. Wally, all ears and gawky energy and carrot-colored hair, jumping out of his chair to chase down the birthday that couldn't come soon enough, and all Shirley could think of was the _Athenia_ and frozen, bloodless bodies floating in the North Atlantic.

"Listen, Wally," he said, affecting a conspiratorial frankness irresistible to boys. "You won't miss out. The last war lasted for years and there's no reason to think this one won't. But you'll get a better job in the Navy if you finish school first. You won't be 18 until the spring, and graduation's right after. With a diploma, you'd be eligible for better training, maybe even work your way up through the ranks."

This tack proved more effective than appeals to safety or parental sensibilities. Wally nodded along, seemingly convinced of the wisdom of this plan. If only he were a junior, maybe it would have been possible to convince him to stay out of this mess even longer.

But no, Wally departed whistling, "Wi' a hundred pipers and a' and a'," and Shirley knew there was no more he could do for him.

*/*/*

Sam was more difficult.

"I can fly," he said earnestly. "I know I can."

"Yes," Shirley agreed reluctantly. "I have every confidence that you could pass an RCAF training course . . . but . . ."

"But what?"

Shirley paid his nephew the respect of looking him in the eye. Beautiful amber eyes, so like Faith's. Sam was one of the golden-brown branch of Merediths, though he was built more on Blythe lines. Tall and broad, he upheld the family name at Redmond as far as football was concerned, though he was not quite the prankster one might expect of a son of Ingleside. Steady where Wally jangled, Sam had always been a reliable chap, sturdy and square in attitude as well as form. He could study his way to competence at anything, even flying.

"It's not that you can't fly," Shirley said. "If it were peacetime and I needed a trustworthy pilot to take passengers to Kingsport, I'd hire you myself. But combat flying . . . it's just a different beast."

"I could learn," Sam protested, a quaver of desperation in his tone.

"I know you could," Shirley allowed, biting back his reservations on that score. "But you've got to ask yourself whether flying is the best use of your skills."

"My skills?"

"We'll need all sorts of men in this fight, Sam. Every one of us will have to give the best that's in us. Men will follow you and you'll lead them well."

Sam scowled. "How can you trust me to lead men when you don't even trust me with a machine?"

Shirley shook his head vigorously. "That's not it. Not at all. You're a born officer, Sam. Like your dad. I'd trust you with the lives of a whole company. You'd love the men and they'd love you back, but you'd still be able to do what needs to be done. Me, on the other hand, I couldn't do all that."

"You're an officer."

"It's not the same."

Sam hung his head, turning his hands over and over as if seeing them for the first time. "So what I do I do?" he asked. "Just go into the infantry?"

"You should talk to your dad," Shirley said. "He and Uncle Jerry will figure out how to get you into officer candidate school."

A boy might have dug in his heels and protested, but the war was making men out of them already. Sam nodded grimly and stood, reaching out to shake his uncle's hand. Shirley didn't know whether to say _I'm sorry_ or y _ou're welcome_ , so he only nodded.

*/*/*

When Gil perched on the edge of the couch, face shining with adventure-lust, Shirley quailed internally. He wanted to clap the kid in irons and ground him for the duration and damn the disgrace of it. He wanted to deny that Gil was born for this, but anyone could see that he flew like a falcon and shot like the rifle was part of his arm. He knew he was good, but he had no idea just how good. Even less of how incalculably precious.

Shirley wanted to send him home, smother his ambition, keep him safe. Instead, he looked into the eager gray eyes and extended his hand.

"I'll see you at Camp Borden."

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Carl was surprised to find Shirley at the breakfast table. He had asked for space and Shirley had given it to him, even skipping their Sunday for the first time in years. But he was here now, apparently attempting to rub a hole right through the side of that teacup.

"Will you come with me today?" Shirley asked.

Carl crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb. "Where?"

"Away."

"I'm not going anywhere near a plane," Carl said flatly.

"No planes. I promise."

"And what if I don't want to go anywhere at all?"

"Please?"

*/*/*

An hour later, they were hoisting sail as the _Sweet Flag_ swung clear of Four Winds Harbor and into the glittering Gulf of St. Lawrence. By the look of things, Shirley had been provisioning the boat all night. The bunk in the cabin downstairs was freshly made, the water casks were full, the galley was stocked with enough food that he must have had help preparing, baking skills or no. It was a good surprise, with work and thought behind it, and yet Carl couldn't help but feel miffed at not being consulted. Was he just supposed to go along with everything now and pretend nothing was wrong?

"Where to?" Carl asked, shielding his eye against the brilliant sunlight of waning summer.

"You tell me," Shirley shrugged. "Somewhere. Anywhere."

"Don't you have to be in Ontario?"

"Not til the 14th."

Nine days. And two for travel, at least. That left a single week, ticking away one second at a time.

Shirley stepped across the deck, fastening strong brown hands securely around Carl's hips. "I'll take the Tuesday morning train to the ferry, then the overnight from Moncton. Til then, I'm all yours."

"What about the dog?"

"Una's watching her."

"What if I have work to do?" Carl asked, striving to hold onto his righteous annoyance.

"The birds?"

"The Brant Geese will be arriving soon," Carl sniffed. "Their population is only just starting to recover from the Eelgrass Blight."

"I'll come watch birds with you," Shirley said, drawing him closer.

"There's quite a bit more to it than that, you know."

"Will it take all day?"

"Possibly."

"All night?"

One needed stronger resolve, Carl reflected, to stand one's ground where the Blythe boys were concerned. He never had gotten Faith's knack of it. He knew he'd castigate himself later for not standing his ground. There would be an awful lot of time for it.

"Well, Brant Geese are black," he conceded. "Not really much use looking for them in the dark."

"Let's go, then."

*/*/*

An hour til sundown and no Brant Geese to be found. Really, it was a bit too early for them, and Carl knew it.

Instead, he had piloted _Sweet Flag_ to a tiny crescent-shaped island in the lee of the Magdalens. It was little more than a rock, really — a few scraggly spruces and a smear of pebbled sand, far enough from other islands to remain unobserved, close enough that ships swung wide of the entire area. They dropped anchor within the half-moon embrace of the breakwater.

"I saw some northern lapwings here once," Carl said as he handed blankets and provisions over the gunwales to Shirley in the dinghy. "There was a big storm that blew them in from Europe in '27. Gorgeous birds — green and red with little black crests on their heads. Michelson insisted that I write a bit about them for our updated edition of _Conservation_."**

"Are they an invasive species?" Shirley asked, holding out a hand for Carl to join him.

"No. They all died. It was an accident they were here at all, and they didn't adapt."

They left _Sweet Flag_ at anchor in the sheltered cove and rowed over to the beach in the dinghy. Or rather Shirley rowed and Carl watched him row until he forced himself to stop counting the strokes and the seconds and tried to embrace the idyll.

*/*/*

A waning gibbous moon rose over the gulf. That seemed about right. It had been full last week, with bits sloughing off relentlessly ever since.

Carl hadn't wanted to light a fire. Too like those nights out on the line, with warnings about crack German snipers who could pick a man off at 500 yards by the light of a single match. No snipers out here, but a fire on the water would call any vessel within ten miles and what was the difference, really?

But Shirley had insisted that it would be cold, and there was sense in that. September in the Glen was already turning bronze and breezy, and out in the gulf, sailwinds swept unimpeded over the steel-dark sea. In the end, Shirley had dug a slanted pit in the sand and built up a screen of flotsam and bladderwrack on the seaward side. Thus shielded, the driftwood fire might _weave its wavering, elusive, sea-born hues_ without betraying their sanctuary.***

Carl leaned against a driftwood log, head lolling, fingers twined in the brown waves of Shirley's hair, cradled in the hollow of his chest. There were not many moments like this, not for anyone. Lulling waves and salt-spiced wind, and a lover's comforting weight, a warm anchor against the pull of an infinite, star-spattered sky.

"I'm sorry," Shirley said. "About leaving."

"No you aren't."

"I am."

"Then don't go."

Shirley was quiet a long moment. Above, a green-tailed meteor streaked toward the horizon to meet its reflection, then disappeared into the deeps. "You know how it is for me," he murmured at last. "I just . . . I can't send them off without doing what I can to prepare them. Protect them."

"You can't save them, Shirley," Carl said, not harshly, but with decision.

"I know that. But just for myself. I have to know I did my bit."

Carl disentangled his hands and brought them down to cross over Shirley's chest, tether and shield and embrace in one. "You did your bit. Twenty years ago."

"It's not enough."

"It was more than enough."

They stayed that way in silence, following their own well-trodden paths. If it was true that they could not follow every bend and side-trail together, it was also true that their way was less lonely than so many of their comrades-in-arms who came home and couldn't really explain things to the people who tried so hard to love them.

"I guess our mail will be censored again," Carl observed after a while.

"I don't know what the rules will be for mail sent within Canada. But I can get to a civilian post office if I need to."

Carl rested his chin on the top of Shirley's head, breathing in the smell of his hair: sweat and salt and a whiff of something fresh-baked. "What did you do with my letters?" he asked. "During the last war?"

Shirley shrugged. "Burned them. Well, memorized them, then burned them."

Carl grunted acknowledgment.

"Why, what did you do with mine?"

"Same," Carl admitted. "When I could get a fire. We couldn't have one, out on the line. Too dangerous."

"What did you do when you couldn't?"

"Held onto them until I could find a flame," Carl answered. Then, remembering, "Or . . . well . . . one time I ate one."

"You _ate_ one?" Shirley asked, tipping his head back to look up at Carl with a twinkle of incredulity.

A gentle chuckle bubbled through Carl's chest. "Maybe not _ate_. Chewed to a pulp, though."

"Why?"

An intrusive memory flashed into clarity, sprung from the box on the shelf where Carl kept it lidded and inactive. The cheek-reddening cold of a night that froze the mud in the bottom of the trench, intermittent shell fire — nothing out of the ordinary — and the coarse laughter of men trading bawdy gossip.

 _Found them together in their billet.  
_ _No court martial?  
_ _We should send them over to Prince Eulenburg with our regards.  
_ _Probably spies.  
_ _They should be horsewhipped through the parade grounds_.

"It was too dangerous to keep it," Carl shuddered, mouth gone dry with the ghost of chewed paper.

"Do you remember which letter?"

Carl forced himself to file the memory away, back in its place on the long, crowded shelf, and consciously relaxed the shoulders he had bunched unwittingly. "I think the one about praying for me whenever you saw a rat."

"I still do that."

"There were an awful lot of rats there."

"I prayed a lot."

Carl smiled, then sighed. "I wish we still had them. Those letters. Yours were awfully good."

"I have yours," Shirley said quietly.

"What? You just said you burnt them."

"No, I said I memorized them, then burnt them."

"That was twenty years ago."

An unhurried smile spread over Shirley's face. " _Let me assure you that I found Paris perfectly enchanting. It is a breathtaking city and I hope to return there as often as I can._ "

Carl snorted. "You never remember them all. Now?"

" _I certainly do remember that vow to Rilla. You were our witness, and I guess you've done a pretty good job of holding us to our oath_."

"You're kidding."

"We Blythes always did have a happy talent for recitation."

"You never recited anything."

"Only because no one ever asked me. Doesn't mean I can't."

Carl shook his head. "Another hidden talent, is it? What would you recite? Whitman? That would be a memorable concert. _In paths untrodden_ . . ."

Shirley sat up, letting cold air rush in to chill the skin where they had kept one another warm. Turning to face Carl, he knelt and addressed an audience of one:

" _The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive . . .  
_ _The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd,  
_ _Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders,  
_ _Put me down and depart on your way."_

"Bit late for that, isn't it?" Carl scoffed.

" _Or else_ ," Shirley continued, leaning in to cradle Carl's cheek in a broad, brown hand, then sliding upward under the elastic of his eyepatch and pushing it out of the way to kiss across his brows.

" _Or else by stealth in some wood for trial  
_ _Or back of a rock in the open air  
_ _For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in company . . ."_

He spoke quietly, but distinctly, letting the annunciation of the words send little puffs of breath down Carl's neck, then across his collarbone . . .

 _"But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any_ _person for miles around approach unawares,  
_ _Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or_ _some quiet island,"_

"Which poem is this?" Carl asked, a little faintly.

"It's 'Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand.'"

"It isn't."

"It is."

"You're making that up."

"I'm not."

Carl made an inarticulate reply.

"Holding the volume of verse, you understand," Shirley explained. "It's a poem about the book itself."

"'Course it is," Carl gulped. Then, with a tiny shudder, "What's next?"

 _"_ Next is _, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,_ " Shirley said, demonstrating.

 _"With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss,  
_ _For I am the new husband and I am the comrade._ "

"That's . . . enough poetry . . . for now".

"You sure?" Shirley asked. "Because the next stanza is, _Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing_ . . ."

"Yes . . . quite enough . . ."

" _Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip_ . . ."

". . . stop . . ."

"Stop?"

". . . stop . . . talking . . ."

Shirley did not finish the verse then, nor for a long while afterward. Not until the fire had burned to winking coals under the silver moon, and Carl was sinking into sleep, replete, in the curve of his arm. Then, Shirley pulled a blanket over them, not for modesty, but to trap their shared heat against the chill of the lengthening night. Beneath its shelter, he traced a languid pattern across Carl's shoulder with one strong finger, and whispered the stanza through to completion:

 _Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;  
_ _For thus merely touching you is enough, is best,  
_ _And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.****_

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Una served a silent breakfast, scrambled eggs pushed from one side of a plate to the other, toast untouched, tea cooling in forgotten cups. Even Muggins, draped over Shirley's foot under the table, was still. The mantel clock in the living room ticked away minutes, the sharp pulse of its brass pendulum wearing down Una's nerves with every mechanical click until she resolved that really a sundial would be perfectly adequate to their needs.

"I put some butchers' scraps in the icebox," Shirley said eventually. "For the dog."

"Thank you," Una replied when it became apparent that Carl would not be drawn into small talk. "I packed you a hamper for the train."

"Thank you."

There had been a round of goodbyes yesterday, and a farewell supper at Ingleside that Carl did not attend. Faith had asked where he was, but Una could only say truthfully that she was not really sure. That had been a subdued affair, smothered by the weight of that morning's headline: CANADA DECLARES WAR WITH GERMANY. Nobody ate much of anything.

Mrs. Blythe had roused herself from her bed — Faith had whispered that she mightn't — and come up to Ingleside to sit in ghastly silence at the supper table. When it came time to bid Shirley adieu, she had clasped his hands and kissed him and extracted perfunctory promises of correspondence.

Dr. Blythe had said his goodbyes with a handshake that became an overlong hug, which Shirley endured somewhat stiffly but without complaint.

"Be careful," Dr. Blythe had said just loudly enough for others to hear. But of course, Shirley had been born careful.

"Did you send your measurements to the tailor in Toronto for your uniforms?" Una asked over breakfast.

"Yes."

"Is Camp Borden very near Toronto?"

"An hour or two by train."

"Maybe you can see Gil."

"Maybe."

Conversation having been thus throttled in its cot, Una fidgeted with the dishtowel stuck in the waistband of her apron until Shirley consulted his radium wristwatch and swallowed.

"I guess I'll be going then," he said, pushing back from the table.

Una thought for a moment that Carl might stay where he was, watching his eggs shrivel and saying nothing. But he stood as well and held out his palm to Shirley.

"Give me your keys."

"Keys?"

"I'll drive you to the station."

Shirley complied, digging in his pocket and meekly handing the ring to Carl before hoisting his duffel to his shoulder. Next, he turned to Una and bent, kissing her primly on the cheek.

"'Bye, Una."

"Be safe," she said.

Shirley only nodded, then knelt to scoop Muggins into his arms.

"Be good," he said, scratching her scruff before passing her to Una.

Shirley gave them both a last apologetic grimace. Carl followed him out the door and did not return until sometime deep in the black watches of the new moon night.

* * *

Notes:

*In fact, more than 1,200 of the people aboard the _Athenia_ were rescued by passing vessels (it took the ship 14 hours to sink and many of the dead were killed in the initial torpedoing and in lifeboat accidents). However, the _Charlottetown Guardian_ news item on September 4 only reported the ship's loss, not the rescues.

**Carl and Professor Michelson have been collaborating on updated editions of Charles Gordon Hewitt's _The Conservation of Wild Life in Canada_ (1921). Hewitt, an entomologist and conservation-minded biologist, died of the flu in 1920. (see chapters 11 and 23 of this story)

*** _Anne's House of Dreams_ , Chapter 9: "An Evening at Four Winds Point"

****Walt Whitman, "Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand," Calamus, _Leaves of Grass_


	31. What Manner of Salutation

**What Manner of Salutation**

* * *

September 1939

* * *

 _When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,_  
 _My grace all-sufficient shall be thy supply._  
 _The flames shall not hurt thee; I only design_  
 _Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine._

\- George Keith or Robert Keen, "How Firm a Foundation" (c.1787)

* * *

At its September meeting, the St. Elizabeth's Altar Guild had finally voted to retire the old fair linen cloth that had seen such long and distinguished service in their sanctuary. It was to be replaced by a generous bequest from the late Mrs. Eleanor Palmer, a new cloth that she and Una Meredith had worked on together for years. It was an exquisite piece of white-on-white embroidery with a bobbin lace fringe deep and intricate enough to grace the altar of Canterbury Cathedral itself.

Una was satisfied with the Guild's decision, not on her own behalf, but for the sake of her dear friend, who had worked love into every stitch. There had been some disagreement as to whether the new cloth should debut immediately or whether they should wait for St. Elizabeth's feast day in November, but with the world in such a state, the consensus was that all must put their best foot forward in altar vestments as well as in more mundane matters. Una smiled secretly, thinking of Rilla's long-held belief that _it is easier to behave nicely when you have your good clothes on_.*

Perhaps thoughts of young Rilla distracted Una, or perhaps she was only uncharacteristically inattentive as she carried the pale and heavy cloth from the sacristy to the altar. In either case, she did not notice the long edge of the lace fringe slipping loose from the bundle and falling precariously close to her steel-buckled shoes. Neither did she notice the man sitting in the front pew until his cheerful greeting surprised her into a stutter-step that intersected the fallen lace at an unfortunate moment and sent Una tumbling to her knees on the mosaic-tiled floor of the aisle.

"Goodness, are you alright, Miss Meredith?" Father Caldwell asked, crouching to extend a hand to Una as she disentangled herself from the froth of whitework.

"Yes," Una assured him absently. In truth, she was more concerned about the state of the fringe than her own bumps and bruises, and immediately began scouring the cloth for tears, ignoring Father Caldwell's proffered hand.

" _And when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be_ ," the priest quoted with a twinkle in his eye.**

Una peered at Father Caldwell with badly disguised skepticism, it being scarcely possible to imagine a less angelic visitation. Father Caldwell was a jovial little man with a round, open face and a ready smile shining above his black cassock. He was somewhere north of fifty, though his age showed mostly in the roundness of his belly and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, not in his boisterous energy nor in his habit of making his pastoral rounds on a Vincent Meteor motorcycle that he tended lovingly and kept in the rectory stable where Father Kirkland had housed his old nag, Jenny. When a congregant commented on the change, Father Caldwell had merely laughed and said that for the sake of continuity, the motorcycle would henceforth answer to "Jenny" as well. The rumor among the congregation was that he was a widower, a supposition all but confirmed by the presence of a wedding ring and absence of a wife. In the six months since his arrival at St. Elizabeth's, he had insisted that everyone call him Father Daniel, and had persuaded the majority of his flock on this startling innovation in etiquette, with only a few holdouts clinging resolutely to his surname for propriety's sake.

"Thank you, Father Caldwell," Una said, taking his hand and rising to her feet. The fair linen cloth seemed none the worse for wear, though it had come unfolded in both the fall and Una's researches, and was now a rather unwieldy bundle of thick, slippery cloth that Una attempted to corral by tossing a loose end of lace over her shoulder.

"Oh, dear. I seem to have caused rather a mess," he said. "May I make amends by assisting you in your duties?"

Una could hardly prevent a priest setting his own altar, could she? Nevermind that she had garbed that very altar a thousand times in the past twenty years, counting each solitary, peaceful moment of her work among the happiest in her week.

"Thank you, yes," she said, adding, "though no amends are necessary."

Feeling flustered, Una turned toward the chancel rail and knelt to gather her thoughts and pray. Father Caldwell took the place at her right hand, careful not to kneel on the trailing edge of white lace. It took Una a moment to clear her mind before her customary invocation came to her, and another before she felt at peace.

. . . _grant me a devout spirit and a reverent demeanor . . . and for goodness sake, a steadier nerve!_

When she was finished, Una opened her eyes to find Father Caldwell smiling at her. He opened the little gate in the chancel rail and held it for her, following her to the altar and genuflecting there. Silently, they worked together, spreading the fair linen cloth between them, draping and smoothing it, adjusting the lace edges until they hung even on either side. Una was perfectly capable of doing this herself, and could not help but feel slightly defensive when Father Caldwell stepped in to adjust the fringe that she had already judged acceptable. Still, it was not unpleasant to stand side-by-side before the altar, evaluating the effect, knowing that St. Elizabeth's was well fitted for what promised to be a trying season.

Back outside the chancel rail, Father Caldwell broke the reverent silence. "A lovely cloth. I've never seen anything quite like it. I understand that you made it?"

Una demurred. "My friend, Mrs. Palmer, gave the materials and designed the embellishments. I only helped."

"I see," said Father Caldwell, a certain flash in his eye suggesting that perhaps he saw more than Una had intended him to see. "I'm very sorry I did not have the chance to meet her. I shall convey my gratitude to her through prayer, and to you in person."

Una bobbed her head awkwardly, squirming under this unlooked-for recognition.

"I should go to the sacristy," she said. "I haven't laid out your vestments yet."

"I assure you that I can dress myself, Miss Meredith," Father Caldwell chuckled.

Una blinked. "It's . . . my job."

"Far be it for me to keep you from your vocation," he said. "In that case, I'll see that the communion plate is all in order, shall I?"

Again, Una could hardly object, though she knew very well that the silver was in perfect, gleaming order, having polished it herself. She followed Father Caldwell to the sacristy and busied herself at the credens, selecting the proper green stole from the drawer and laying it out for the priest's convenience. He busied himself over the chalice and paten, giving no reason for Una to be so minutely aware of his presence.

Out in the sanctuary, the organ wheezed to life, blaring a few discordant notes before the organist began warming up in earnest. _That would be Mr. Allonby_ , Una thought, not quite charitably, as the unseen musician mashed a few grating chords that wanted to be the beginning of "How Firm a Foundation."

She must have winced visibly, because Father Caldwell appeared at her elbow, eyebrows raised.

"Don't like this hymn?" he asked.

"It's my favorite," Una admitted, grimacing.

Father Caldwell laughed, a hearty, buoyant sound that generally elicited echoes from his companions. "I see. Well, let us hope that practice makes perfect."

Una returned the smile. She was not insensible to the joke, which only intensified as poor Mr. Allonby continued to butcher the piece.

" _When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie_ ," Father Caldwell shrugged, not even attempting to sing the line to the broken melody squeaking out of the organ.

It was too funny. Una hid her smile behind her hand. It seemed a terrible thing to be giggling in the sacristy, especially at poor Mr. Allonby's expense, but she could not seem to help herself. Father Caldwell was certainly not helping, grinning at her over the credens.

"Why are an organist's fingers like lightning?" he asked, a wicked twist to his lips. "Because they rarely strike the same place twice."

Una snorted, clamping her other hand over her face in a belated effort to stifle the sound. It was most undignified, and she would worry what Father Caldwell might think of her if he hadn't been the one cracking jokes in the first place.

When the hymn came to a merciful conclusion, Una bowed herself out of the sacristy, wondering what on earth had come over her.

"Goodbye, Miss Meredith," Father Caldwell called after her.

* * *

Before he knocked on the office door marked _Headquarters: No. 1 Service Flying Training School, Camp Borden_ , Shirley took a moment to straighten the sleeves of his new service dress tunic, tugging them down over his radium wristwatch. The slate blue wool was crisp and thick enough to lie flat, which Shirley found soothing. He had thought that the uniform might feel stiff and formal after all these years, but the moment the tailor had eased the tunic over his shoulders, it molded itself to him like a second skin. He'd tipped the craftsman for the good fit.

Belt and buttons and smart black tie over a light blue shirt. The boots were leather so supple they barely needed to be broken in. The only part that had needed some extra care was the left breast. Shirley had checked and double-checked that the silver wings flew straight and true over the colorful row of medal bars, from the purple-and-white diagonal lines of the Distinguished Flying Cross to the cheerful little rainbow of the Allied Victory Medal with its bronze oak leaf spray denoting "Mentioned in Despatches."

Now he was all shined and polished and ready for the next bend in the road.

"Come in!" shouted a gruff voice.

Shirley did as he was ordered and stepped into the dim, cluttered office, standing to attention and saluting the rumpled, grizzle-mustached officer behind the teeming desk. A stack of folders slid to the floor as the older man leapt to his feet.

"At ease, at ease," he said, stepping over the papers to pump Shirley's hand in his own firm grip. "Blythe! Shirley Blythe! Well now, you're a welcome sight and no mistake."

"Yes, sir," Shirley said, relaxing internally, if not visibly.

Wing Commander Robert McMullen waved him off.*** "Please, Blythe, please. There will be plenty of time for protocol. Right now I need you settled in and comfortable so you can help me with _this_ " he gestured helplessly to the chaos of the office. "We've got our first batch of new cadets coming in tomorrow — _tomorrow_ , Blythe! — and no one around here knows their ass from their elbow! Group Captain Simmons took off for England last week and left me with _this_ . . ." McMullen seemed unable to summon adequate words for his predicament and aimed a desultory kick at the toppled paperwork.

"Yes, sir," Shirley replied.

McMullen crossed his arms and looked Shirley over critically. "I've read your file, of course," he said. "Hell of a read. And I understand you've been flying puddle jumpers ever since the last war?"

"Yes, sir," Shirley said, then, making an effort to meet McMullen's interest halfway. "I've got an old Curtiss HS-2L at home and some homebuilts. And a Piper Cub."

McMullen nodded. "What's the top speed on that Cub?"

"About 85 miles an hour, sir. If you push it."

McMullen bit his upper lip to keep from grinning, sending his mustache prickling out in a bristly spray of delight. "Ever flown a North American Harvard?"

Shirley had seen them on his way in, gleaming on the runway. He had done a double-take at the bright-yellow paint, so reminiscent of the little snub-nosed Cub. But no paint job could disguise the heft of the Harvards, five times as heavy as the Cub and, Shirley knew, three times faster.

"Not yet, sir," he said, unable to suppress a small smile.

McMullen clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll tell you what. Let's get you introduced to your batman and settled in. Then you go and take one of those beauties for a spin. When you get back, join me for supper in the mess and then we'll get down to sorting through this muddle."

"Yes, sir," Shirley said, a genuine smile dawning as he shook McMullen's hand.

*/*/*

Shirley set his duffel on the bed in the little room in the officers' quarters McMullen had indicated on a torn scrap of scratch paper. Spare and unadorned, his quarters boasted little more than a metal-framed bed, writing desk, and wardrobe. Still, the room had a window looking out onto the playing fields, an ensuite bathroom, and a door that locked. What more could anyone want?

Before Shirley could unpack a single sock, a rapid-fire knock at the door announced the arrival of his batman. He was a freckly, buck-toothed lad not much older than 20, with cornsilk hair and a patch on his coveralls that said _Davenport_. He gave a lazy salute before blurting, " _You're_ Shirley Blythe?"

Shirley may have been a long time out of the service, but he was fairly certain that this was not the proper way to greet a senior officer. He raised an eyebrow, which did not prevent Davenport from blundering on without apparent concern.

"A name like that — I was expecting the Good Ship Lollipop!"

 _Charming_.

Shirley straightened up to his full height and blasted Aircraftman Davenport with a full ten seconds of silence that seemed to remind the younger man where he was.

"Let's just stick with _sir_ , shall we, Davenport?" Shirley said mercifully when he began to cower.

"Yes, sir," Davenport agreed, assuming a lax posture Shirley feared was meant to be attention.

Oh, this was going to be exhausting.

In the last war, Shirley hadn't given much thought to batmen. They were around, sure, but junior officers tended to share one in groups of three or four, and only when circumstance permitted. Once they were in France, everyone had been so busy and resources stretched so thin that Shirley barely ever saw the men who washed his clothes and cooked his meals. He recalled only one of them, an older man with a port wine birthmark who had a talent for finding cigarettes under even the most adverse circumstances. Harold, maybe? Or Hayward? Something like that. He'd had other things on his mind.

"Tell me, Davenport," Shirley said, trying to keep annoyance out of his voice, "what _exactly_ are your duties as my batman?"

"Yes, sir," Davenport said, ticking off his assignments on his fingers. "I'm to tidy your quarters, make your bed, clean your ablutions, keep your uniforms clean and ready, shine your boots, cook if you need anything not available in the mess, drive you if you need to go anywhere, run errands for you, and just generally be on hand at all times."

 _Delightful_.

"Errands, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright," Shirley said, casting about for an excuse to send him away. "I require . . . a supply of writing paper. And envelopes. Pencils, too. When you get back, you can unpack my duffel. Beyond that . . . well, just wait for further orders."

"Yes, sir," Davenport said, already halfway out the door. "Stamps as well?"

"Sure. Stamps. Thanks."

As Davenport's footsteps faded down the hall, Shirley shut the door and drew the flimsy lock. He leaned against it, head back, preemptively weary at the thought of Davenport _on hand at all times_. The first order of business might be to devise a list of tasks to keep him occupied.

For now, Shirley looked about the room, trying to see if there was any place that was really private. No locks on any of the desk drawers, no loose floorboards, and a mattress too thin to hide much of anything inside. Well, he'd think on that later, and keep his wallet on his person at all times.

Reaching for it now, Shirley flipped the leather cover open, revealing the transparent panel meant for displaying a photo. He had chosen carefully, selecting one from last summer: himself, posing next to the Curtiss with Gil, Sam, and Wally, Muggins a gray blur in Gil's arms. The airplane dominated the frame, its spindly struts and canvas wings faintly absurd in contrast to the sturdy Harvards outside. In the unlikely event that anyone ever saw it, this photo provided plenty of opportunity for diversionary conversation — the old Flying Boat, the nephews, the joys and trials of terriers.

Prying the flap up, Shirley caught hold of the edge of the picture, tugging it from its sleeve. It was a tight fit, and the snapshot did not budge easily, which was just as well. He drew it out a smidgen at a time, each pull revealing another sliver of the photo behind. Water first, glinting white and silver in the black-and-white snap. Then a rail, a bit of deck, and finally Carl, helming the _Sweet Flag_ , laughing up at the camera.

 _"You're going to fall overboard, you know, leaning back on the rail like that!"_

 _"I'm steady as the Rock of Gibraltar. Stop talking so I can get a good shot."_

 _"I thought you wanted a candid."_

 _"I do. Just . . . argh!"_

 _"There are waves around here, you know."_

 _"I'm soaked!"_

 _"Told you you should have worn a mac!"_

 _"Got it."_

 _"A mac?"_

 _"The snap."_

Shirley ran a thumb over the surface. There were other pictures at home — yearbook photos and Christmas pictures and the flustered merriment of wedding parties. But he'd known this one was special even before he had developed it. No matter what happened or how many years passed, this was how he would always remember Carl, wind in his hair, mid-laugh. It was wrong to keep it hidden, no matter how necessary.

Shirley slid the other photo back over Carl and tucked the wallet into his pocket.

If he meant to be back in the officer's mess for supper, he'd need to find one of the junior flight instructors and get briefed on the finer points of the North American Harvard. There would be time tonight, in the somewhat suspect privacy of his quarters, to write home and report that all was well.

* * *

Notes:

*RoI chapter 13: "A Slice of Humble Pie"

**Luke 1:29 (The angel surprising Mary with news that she would bear a son.)

***The real commanding officer of Camp Borden was Wing Commander Frank S. McGill. I've kept his mustache, but invented a replacement for this story so as not to slander anyone. The real Wing Commander McGill really did take over Camp Borden in September 1939 when Group Captain Stevenson was sent to England to help set up the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, but all the personal details in this story are purely fictional.

An interesting research note that is neither here nor there: one of the RCAF officers at Camp Borden, Squadron Leader B. Lloyd Hession (the medical officer), was really from Prince Edward Island. He got married in Charlottetown in July of 1941, and the announcement says that his father was from Georgetown, which is the town I use as a proxy for Lowbridge. Not relevant to the story, but just one of those things I notice while reading old newspapers.

Also neither here nor there, the whole scene "Good Ship Lollipop" scene in Shirley Temple's _Bright Eyes_ (1934) takes place on an airplane.


	32. Parochial Skills

**Parochial Skills**

* * *

October 1939

* * *

 _Deaconesses have, according to the apostolical regulations, the office of serving the Christian congregation as Phoebe served the Church at Cenchrea. To them is committed the care of the sick, the poor, the education of young children, and generally the help of the needy of whatever kind. And also it is their office to be helpers, either directly or indirectly, to the ministers of the Church._

\- Deaconess Elizabeth Ferard, first Deaconess of the Church of England, 1861

* * *

When Carl sunk into the sofa, letter in one hand, ripe pear in the other, Muggins hopped up onto the cushion beside him and snuffled after the envelope addressed to _C. Meredith._ Carl couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. In all the rituals he had devised for savoring letters, he had never thought of smelling them. After all, Shirley hardly ran to scented paper. Carl lifted the envelope to his nose, but whatever trace Muggins had caught was too faint for him to detect.

"Sorry to disappoint," he said, dropping the pear to scratch her silky ears. "But I'll read to you if you like."

The dog settled in beside Carl, pressing her solid warmth along his thigh as if to say she was sorry too, but they'd just have to make the best of things together. Carl slit the flap and bit into the pear, catching a dribble of juice with his sleeve before it could splatter the page.

" _Dear Kit,_ " he began, amending, "and Muggins,"

 _All is well at Camp Borden. We have a class of 40 cadets and it is lucky that they mostly have previous flying experience because we are still getting our legs under us here. I am second-in-command to Wing Commander McMullen and am in charge of coordinating the junior flying instructors and teaching combat maneuvers and night flying. I am also in charge of classroom instruction — navigation, meteorology, trigonometry — which is going about as well as you might imagine. McMullen saw in my file that I had a teacher's certificate from Queen's and wouldn't hear any of my protests that my year as a supply teacher in Charlottetown was far from my finest hour._

 _My batman, Davenport, continues to fulfill his duties with annoying thoroughness. My quarters are very clean and my uniforms nicely brushed and I am all at sixes and sevens over it. I have tried to devise any number of improbable errands to keep him busy, but he is like the cat that came back and I can't get shut of him. Have no concerns for my material comforts — I assure you that I am looked after to the absolute limit of my endurance._

 _I think sometimes . . ._

"Whoops, sorry girl, I don't think this part's for your delicate ears," Carl said, grinning to himself and reading the next paragraph several times through. At least Shirley seemed to be fairly confident that Davenport wasn't reading his outgoing mail.

" _I've written my parents to tell them I'm settled,_ " Carl resumed, " _but the truth is that I'm swamped and don't have time for letters unless I make the time. Perhaps that's something I can delegate to Davenport (yours excepted, of course). In any case, give my regards to Una, and a kiss to Mugsy if she'll allow it. For yourself, imagination must suffice._

 _Yours truly,  
_ _Shirley_

Carl leaned back into the sofa, giving imagination free rein for the space of a few heartbeats. A dangerous thing to do these days, but necessary in small doses. His eye roved over the mantel — the photo of the whole family at Jerry and Nan's wedding, another of Shirley with the boys out at the hangar, Nellie's watercolor of the Orinoco geese. Shirley had sent a copy of his official portrait in uniform, but Carl hadn't framed it yet. It was the sort that ran with memorial columns in the newspaper and was better left wrapped in brown paper in the back of his closet.

The front door creaked, admitting a windblown Una home from the Newgates'.

"You're home early," she said, leaning over the back of the sofa to kiss Carl's cheek with chill-chapped lips.

"Storm coming," Carl said, folding the letter. "I didn't want to get caught out in the dark."

Una gave an approving nod to this exercise of caution and removed her gloves so that she could give Muggins a greeting pat.

"Letter?" she asked, eyeing Carl's correspondence.

"Shirley says hello," he said. "They've put him in charge of teaching the cadets meteorology."

Una was too polite to voice her skepticism, but couldn't keep her expression entirely neutral.

Carl laughed. "I don't think he's particularly optimistic either. How's Amelia getting on?"

"Honestly, I'm worried," Una said, perching on the edge of an armchair. "Archie's back is worse than ever and I don't know how they'll get the potatoes in this year. The children are helping, of course, but the girls are only thirteen and Georgie's so small for nine."

"I can help," Carl said. "It'll be too wet tomorrow, but day after that, I'll go over and dig spuds."

"Oh, would you?" Una said, clasping her hands beneath her chin. "It would be such a help. I was going to spend tomorrow baking for them — Amelia's been helping in the fields and hasn't a spare moment. And even if she did, there's hardly a spare morsel in that house. I hate even to accept tea when I visit."

Her words conjured the days of Ditto, when a visit to Ingleside meant bread and butter, as well as companionship. Well, the little gray house couldn't quite be Ingleside to the Newgate children, but they could at least keep them fed.

"I'll bring over a peck of pears, too," Carl said. "We've got enough for a French battalion. And should we ask Jem to come out and take a look at Archie's back?"

Una shook her head. "I suggested as much, but he won't have a doctor. Though I think that's pride more than poverty. He's never even gone to the Pension Board, even though his old shoulder wound troubles him as much as anything else."

Carl chewed thoughtfully. His own dealings with the Pension Board were perfunctory — the eye was unlikely to grow back — but nonetheless disagreeable. A less obvious disability like Archie's might well mean intrusive questions and uncomfortable examinations all for nothing.

"Jem never bothered applying either," Carl said. "Maybe I can get Archie to talk to him at least. He might accept a checkup once he sees Jem's lift."

"It isn't my place to press," Una said, smoothing her skirt. "But I know Amelia would be grateful."

"I can't promise anything, but I'll do what I can."

It was the least he could do for a comrade, especially one who was a neighbor as well. Carl had an uneasy feeling that he was not a very good neighbor, leaving all that to Una. If it weren't for her, would he even know the Newgates' names, let alone the fact that they were in need? Part of that was distance; it was half a mile to Pelham's Pond, with the Newgate house on one bank and the hayfield they rented from St. Elizabeth's on the other. Carl's own routes were generally oriented Glenward, toward the harbor or the road that branched off toward Mowbray Narrows, so he rarely passed by. But that wasn't the whole story. Even if the Newgates had lived a stone's throw away, Carl might have gone months or years without remembering they existed if it weren't for Una.

"They're lucky to have you," he said, startling his sister with sudden praise. "We all are."

Una took the compliment badly, blushing and muttering vague denials. She retreated to the kitchen soon after, leaving Carl to his letter and his pear. He watched her go, wishing there was something he could do for her as well.

* * *

It was nearly noon before Una was able to leave the Mitchell house. She had only intended to stay a moment, having marked today as the day when she must finally speak to Father Caldwell, but what with one thing and another, she simply could not get away. Mr. Mitchell was laid up with yet another bout of the malaria he'd picked up in the Mediterranean during the War. That is to say, the last war, which was The War no longer. Strange, that. It had been the great cataclysm of all their lives, and Una couldn't reconcile herself to the idea that it was only one of the many, many wars that had once been The War to someone.

In any case, Mr. Mitchell was prone to recurring fevers that sent him to the dark-curtained safety of his bedroom, where he hid from his children and their questions until he could emerge smiling once more. Sometimes he was down for several days, other times for several weeks. No telling how long it would be this time, but his family still needed food and clothing, and Mrs. Mitchell needed a shoulder to cry on far away from the bedroom, where her husband could not hear.

Una stowed her empty crate in the blue tricycle's carrying basket, confident that she had stocked the pantry well enough to see the Mitchells through another week. All the ladies of the Altar Guild had sent something, even Amelia Newgate, who had filled a small sack with potatoes out of her own meager harvest. It was a kind gesture, if one Amelia could ill afford, and Una made a note to find some way of disguising a meal as a gift to lessen the pinch.

The Mitchell children waved goodbye as Una pedaled down the drive, strumming her bell as she turned onto the familiar streets of Lowbridge. Past the low-slung lobster cannery with its perpetual stink, past the shanties where the workers lived three-to-a-bed without electricity or running water, past the post office with its red flag snapping bravely in the breeze off the bay. Una nodded hello to Mrs. Millison and Mrs. Crawford, in from the Upper Glen to do a little shopping, and to old Mr. Anderson, sitting on his daughter-in-law's front stoop, mending a lobster trap.

She passed Lowbridge High School just as the noon bell rang and said a little prayer for Wally and Jemmy and all the other young people pouring out into the slanting autumn sunshine in all their beautiful vitality. She did not pause to search out the Blythes' ruddy heads among the crowd, knowing that a spinster aunt on a tricycle could only embarrass them in front of their friends, but she held them in her heart just the same.

Two streets over from the high school, Una parked her tricycle beneath a flaming maple between St. Elizabeth's and the little brick rectory next door. There was plenty to do in the church office, particularly with the Feast of St. Elizabeth and attendant festival coming up in November, but Una did not follow her usual path up the granite steps to the church. Instead, she patted her hair, brushed dust from her navy blue skirt, and went to knock at the rectory door.

Father Caldwell had evidently been at lunch. Una ducked her head and offered to return later, but he waved away all her objections and insisted that she join him in a bite.

"It's no trouble at all!" he insisted as he led Una through the sitting room, past the study, and back toward the kitchen. "Mrs. Howard brought me a beautiful ham and there's really no way I can do it justice on my own."

Una sat in the chair he pulled out for her and accepted a plate and a thick slice of bread, though she hesitated when it came to the ham.

Father Caldwell paused in his bustling to peer at her, then smacked his forehead. "Of course! Forgive me, Miss Meredith. I recall now that you are a vegetarian. I'm sure I have some cheese here somewhere. Do you eat cheese?"

Una was on the point of saying that yes, cheese was perfectly alright, thank you. She could not, therefore, account for the words that tumbled out when she opened her mouth.

"I'm not, actually," Una said, surprising herself. "A vegetarian, that is."

"No?" Father Caldwell's brows flew up. "Forgive me. I must have been misinformed."

"I don't often cook meat," Una said apologetically. "My brother is a vegetarian. We live together and I've gotten out of the habit."

"I see. But you do eat meat?"

"Yes," Una conceded. "Not often, though."

"Is ham alright?"

"Yes, it's fine." Una cut a piece to prove herself an amenable guest, which appeared to satisfy Father Caldwell. It also left Una chewing a mouthful of ham when she meant to be making a solemn petition. She took a long, quiet sip of water to regain her composure. She had been waiting a long time to ask this, taking time to get the measure of the man cheerfully tucking into his lunch across the kitchen table. Perhaps now wasn't the right time after all. But if not now, when?

"Father Caldwell," Una began, committing herself to action before she could flee. "I wonder if I might ask you something."

Father Caldwell bobbed affably, covering his mouth with his napkin as he swallowed. "Please do!"

Una steadied her nerves with a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I have been hoping for quite some time . . . that is . . . are you familiar with the Order of Deaconesses?"

"Indeed!" he answered. "There was a Mother House near my last posting in Toronto. Most impressive, the work they did with the poor and sick. And you wish to be consecrated? Wonderful! I say, you're probably over-qualified, aren't you? But I doubt the Bishop will hold that against you. Splendid idea! I'd have suggested it myself if I had thought of it first."

Una had the sense to close her mouth. She had spent many hours in prayer and contemplation, choosing her words carefully, deciding how best to explain the call she felt to fulfill this particular vocation. She had even rehearsed this conversation, not once, but many times, and now that it came down to it, it was over before it had properly begun.

"I . . . believe I am called," she said, haltingly. "To serve."

"No surprise there," Father Caldwell said, winking. "The way people in this parish tell it, you've been at every sickbed and charity supper for twenty years. And of course the Altar Guild depends on you. And the Festival committee. And a dozen more, I'm sure! Why, just the other day, Deacon Saunders was telling me . . ."

He stopped, arrested perhaps by the look of alarm on Una's face.

"Forgive me, Miss Meredith," he apologized. "I've gotten ahead of you. Tell me, do you truly wish to be set apart as a deaconess?"

Una licked her lips, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird. "I do," she said, quietly but confidently. "I have for a long time."

"If I may ask," Father Caldwell said, merry brown eyes alight with interest, "why haven't you already begun your studies?"

"I did try once," Una admitted. "I . . . Father Kirkland was a dear friend. But perhaps a bit . . . set in his ways?"

Father Caldwell nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Just so. He was one of the old school, that's for sure. And he didn't approve?"

"It wasn't the right time," Una said.

"What's changed?"

It was positively infuriating to feel a flush rise in her cheeks. Una wouldn't have asked it for herself, but God had laid it on her heart to pursue this vocation. Being a deaconess wasn't like being ordained, not really, but it involved formal consecration to the work of serving the poor and needy, to lifelong service to Christ through service to others. Most deaconesses lived in community with other consecrated women, almost like nuns, with whom they were frequently confused, due in part to the blue habits they wore. Never, in all the years since Father Kirkland had counseled her to seek fulfillment in lay ministry instead, had the flame diminished, as surely it must if it had sprung from her own vanity. It was something within her, yet apart from her, inextinguishable.

"You're here," Una said more boldly than she felt. "You have a different way of doing things. I thought perhaps that if Providence has called you here, then I might be meant to try again."

Father Caldwell was beaming. "Indeed!" he enthused. "No need for suspense, Miss Meredith. I think it's a capital idea! It will be a long process — a period of contemplation and then at least two years of study before you can be formally consecrated. Tell me, do you wish to relocate to a Mother House or remain in parish service?"

This was the trickiest bit. Carl needed her, now more than ever. A Mother House was a home of sorts, but it wasn't hers.

"It was my understanding that I might be allowed to stay in parish service," Una said carefully. "That is, I understood that it is possible to join the Order and don the habit, but serve at home . . . if the local rector agrees that there is need in the community . . ."

"Need enough, Miss Meredith!" Father Caldwell agreed heartily. "Of course you must stay. What would we do without you? I take it you don't wish to travel to Toronto for a course at the Anglican Women's Training College?"

"No," Una concurred.

"Then we'll do it by correspondence. I'll sponsor you, of course. We'll write to the Bishop straight away for permission. He'll probably require testimonials from the congregation, but that shouldn't be any trouble at all. Perhaps he will even consent to waive the preparatory period, as I imagine you've done quite a lot of contemplating already. Why, I've even heard a few people call you Saint Una . . ."

At this, Una paled, her nascent joy draining away as through a sieve. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "That's not . . . I'm not . . . please don't . . ."

Father Caldwell blushed, the apples of his round cheeks florid and his tone apologetic. "Forgive me, Miss Meredith. A joke, I'm sure. I only meant that your neighbors think the world of you. I'm sure they will be happy to provide whatever testimony Bishop Atwood requires. And I'd be delighted to oversee your studies. I look forward to it! A wonderful chance to brush off the old textbooks. You'll have courses in Scripture, of course, as well as Christian Apologetics, Anglican Church History, Introduction to Christian Ethics . . ."

Una knew all this, of course. Hadn't she had a course catalog tucked away on her bedroom bookshelf for the past decade? Some of them seemed intimidating — what might be required of her in _Introduction to Ascetical Theology_? — But Una was fairly sure that she could hold her own in studying both the Old Testament and the New, as well as in _Deaconess Practicum: Parochial Skills_. As Father Caldwell rattled off the names of a dozen courses without pausing for breath, Una reflected that her greatest challenge in lessons might be getting a word in edgewise.

"Thank you, Father Caldwell," she interrupted. "Shall I draft a letter to the Bishop?"

"No need, no need," Father Caldwell replied. "I owe him a letter as it is. I'll make this the first order of business."

"Thank you," Una said, and meant it.

"Just one thing," Father Caldwell said, a twinkle in his eye. "Since we are being ever so progressive now, I must insist that you call me Father Daniel. You're practically the only hold-out."

Una's flush deepened and she struggled to find her voice. It seemed terribly informal. Wouldn't the congregation think less of a rector who did not embody respectability? It grated against something very deep and very old inside her, the same elemental worry that had inspired her to sew her father's Sunday suit buttons with coarse white thread and brush his jacket whenever she could find the clothes-brush. The congregation wouldn't respect him and then they'd all be turned out of the manse and perhaps Mrs. Davis would come back to adopt her and take her away from Carl and Faith and Jerry . . .

Something of the old fright must have showed in her face because Father Caldwell's smile drooped. "Please?" he asked. "I really do prefer it."

Una shook herself. Really, she was being terribly rude. The Good Conduct Club had never quite disbanded in Una's own reckoning, and she scolded herself for resisting such a simple request as using Father Caldwell's preferred name.

"Of course," she said, forcing a smile. "Father Daniel."

* * *

Notes:

For a brief overview of the history of the Deaconess movement in Germany, England, and North America, see Emilie Briggs, "The Restoration of the Order of Deaconesses" in _The Biblical World_ , Vol. 41, No. 6 (June 1913), pp. 382-390. The archives of _The Deaconess_ , the journal of Episcopal deaconesses in the United States, are also available online.


	33. A Plain Reading of the Text

**A Plain Reading of the Text**

* * *

November 1939

* * *

 _Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself._

Luke 10:27

* * *

When the lecture was finished and the cadets had filed out of the classroom, Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. How, exactly, was he supposed to find some novel way of explaining barometric pressure when the textbook did a perfectly fine job of it already? To make matters worse, the cadets approached meteorology with all the enthusiasm of tranquilized harbor seals. But just let them get ice buildup in their pitot tubes so that their airspeed readings went belly-up and then see who cared about the weather!

Perhaps when the next class of cadets arrived at Camp Borden, he could pawn off meteorology instruction on Flight Lieutenant Ramsay. For all their sakes.

It wasn't that Shirley hated all classroom teaching. In fact, an hour of Operational Tactics and Countermeasures flew by in the blink of an eye. But that was different, and not just because Shirley had made little balsa-wood models to demonstrate effective techniques for pursuit and evasion. When it came to plotting out the last war's dogfights or dreaming up lurid hypotheticals, the cadets hovered on the edges of their seats with rapt attention and ready questions. Shirley still didn't know how to make them understand that it was really all just high-stakes geometry.

He gathered up his notes and made for the door, jumping slightly when he opened it to find Davenport standing immediately on the other side.

"Good evening, sir!"

Well, at least he was saluting now; that was something.

"What can I do for you, Davenport?"

"Sir, Wing Commander McMullen sent me to fetch you. You're to report to his office when you're finished with class."

Probably something about the training schedule. This was the first group of cadets to start their training after the outbreak of the war and everyone was still working out kinks in the schedule. In a few weeks they'd be done with Intermediate training and need to take their individual wings tests to qualify for Advanced. As the senior flight instructor, it was Shirley's job to decide who passed and who didn't.

Shirley passed his notes and books on to Davenport for safekeeping, then hurried out of the low-slung classroom building and across the chill-winded grounds to Headquarters. One thing about airfields: the trees in the vicinity tended to be squat and scrawny, and the land around very flat, so the wind here could be as brisk as it was far out in the Gulf, beyond sight of land. He should order an overcoat before it got any later in the season; he could even send Davenport to pick it up in Toronto. Or Vancouver.

Shirley ducked into Headquarters, an unassuming little brick structure that might have passed for a suburban house if it had had a sedan outside instead of a jeep. No need to knock on McMullen's office door, which stood open, revealing the chaos within.

"Don't just stand there gawping, Blythe," McMullen grumbled. "Come give me a hand with this lot."

Shirley stepped gingerly over one teetering pile of papers and another, finding footholds wherever the carpet peeked through. He found a corner behind the map table that hadn't been overrun yet and planted himself there.

"What is all this, sir?" he asked.

"Cadets, Blythe, cadets," McMullen growled. "Thousands of volunteers champing at the bit, ready to give their all for King and Country and we can only take 40 at a time, damn it!"

It was true: demand for flight training far outstripped Camp Borden's capacity. There was a plan in the works — the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan — a huge scheme that would bring airmen from all the Commonwealth countries to train in Canada.* It was a massively ambitious scheme — tens of thousands of cadets, hundreds of instructors, dozens of training schools — but it was still only a set of scratchings on a page. Right now they had Camp Borden and its class of 40.

"So these are the files for all the new volunteers?" Shirley ventured.

"Hardly! No, there are thousands upon thousands of chaps just waiting to hear the word _go_. These are the pre-cleared files — men with previous flying experience, maybe a bit of college. The sort we can fast-track through the manning depots and put right into Service Training without mucking about too much with the preliminaries."

When a new recruit joined the RCAF, he went first to a manning depot for a month of basic training and remedial academic instruction, after which the instructors would earmark him for either flight crew or ground crew. Pilot candidates got another month of classroom time at an Initial Training School — theory of flight, algebra, duties of an officer — before beginning an 8-week training course at an Elementary Flying School. There, civilian instructors gave basic lessons in small aircraft not unlike Shirley's Piper Cub. Successful cadets were then passed on to the Service Flying Training Schools, of which Camp Borden was currently the one and only. The peacetime recruits who had arrived on September 15 were slated for a 28-week course at Borden, but there were already plans to trim that to 16 weeks: 8 weeks of intermediate training, 6 weeks of advanced training, 2 weeks of gunnery school. The RAF needed 100,000 aircrew and they needed them right now. The RCAF could barely send 100.

"We should be able to take overlapping groups soon," McMullen muttered, flipping through the files. "Get one group through Intermediate, then take on another while the first goes on to Advanced. We should be getting more kites soon. And they're already building new Service Flying Training Schools near Ottawa, Calgary, and Saskatoon. Should be online by next summer."

Shirley plucked a file from the top of the nearest pile and scanned the cover sheet. _BRANTLEY, Henry Joseph, 24; Kingston, Ontario; McGill Class of '37; commercial pilot for Trans-Canada Air Lines_.

"So we're supposed to . . . choose?" Shirley said, wrinkling his nose.

"Orders are to select two groups of forty who can skip Elementary and come straight to us as soon as they learn a bit about how to salute and keep their bunks tidy."

"But don't we want all of them, sir?"

"Eventually, Blythe, eventually. They'll all come through at some point. But we have to pick some to put through _right now_. The rest will just have to cool their heels and wait their turn. Pull up a seat. You find forty you want and I'll find forty I want and then we'll go have a drink or three."

Shirley was all for just counting out the eighty files and having done with it, but McMullen seemed to be taking the matter seriously. Shirley exchanged places with a tottering stack balanced on the armchair and tried to clear enough space to make a pile for acceptances and another for rejections. Brantley was first on the accepted pile; if he was good enough for Trans-Canada, he was good enough for the RCAF.

For the next hour, Shirley read and sorted, devoting only a minute or two to each candidate. There were bush pilots and hobbyists, engineers and air traffic controllers, and even an aeronautics executive from de Havilland who would surely be more useful cranking out aircraft to keep all these fine cadets aloft. Shirley accepted an MP's son, a prairie mechanic, and a barnstormer whose photo looked like it had been taken in a wind tunnel.

When the next file fell open in his lap, Shirley recoiled. _FORD, Gilbert Owen, 19; Toronto, Ontario; student at the University of Toronto; licensed hobby pilot_.

He'd accepted cadets as young or younger. College was a plus, even if it was only a semester. His training had been impeccable and his natural abilities unmatched.

Shirley flicked a glance toward McMullen, muttering through his mustache as he tossed files to left and right. What would have happened if Gil had turned up in his stack instead?

But he hadn't.

Shirley dropped the file in the _rejected_ pile and reached for another.

* * *

On a blustery Tuesday afternoon, when the dull husks of oak leaves rattled dryly in the trees and the sky threatened rain or worse, Una arrived at St. Elizabeth's fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of her first lesson with Father Daniel. The correspondence course from the Anglican Women's Training College began with _Introduction to Holy Scripture_ , and Una had spent the previous week writing and re-writing her answers to the prompts at the end of the first module. Parking her tricycle under the barren maple, she unpacked her carrying basket, careful not to jostle the string-tied parcel containing her contribution to the rectory tea table. Balancing the box and the folio containing her course materials was awkward, but Una managed, holding her papers tightly under her elbow as she knocked at the rectory door.

"Hello!" came a cheerful voice from behind her.

Startled, Una dropped her folio, which hit the granite step and sprang open, releasing her notes into the swirling breeze. She caught at them, corralling a few, but at least half a dozen pages flew free, winging through the chilly autumn air along unpredictable paths.

"Sorry!" Father Daniel shouted as he chased the errant leaves. Dressed in grease-smeared coveralls rather than his customary blacks, he had evidently been working on Jenny in the stable. The door stood ajar, and several of Una's close-written pages adhered themselves to the motorcycle. Father Daniel proved more agile than Una would have predicted, scurrying this way and that, and even leaping for one paper that had impaled itself on a low-hanging branch. Red-faced with both embarrassment and exertion, he smoothed the pages as best he could, apologizing to Una for the obvious inadequacy of his efforts as he handed them back.

"Forgive me, Miss Meredith," he said, bobbing. "I didn't mean to surprise you."

Una murmured that it was quite alright, really, and hadn't they better go inside? In truth she was as discombobulated internally as externally and it was just as well that Father Daniel excused himself to change out of his coveralls. It gave Una a chance to splash water on her face in the washroom and recover her nerve.

When she joined Father Daniel in the sitting room, she found him smoothing her papers against the worn seat of the antiquated horsehair sofa, smiling guiltily as he attempted to shuffle them back into order. He handed them back to her with a shrug and took up a single typed sheet he had prepared to structure their conversation. Una murmured her thanks and tried not to stare at the little smudge of grease on his temple.

"I don't suppose it's quite fair to go over the prompts in order after I've made such a mess of them," he said when they had taken armchairs opposite one another. "Instead, let me ask: how did you find the first assignment?"

"I found it very interesting," Una said honestly. "I'm not sure what I expected from an introductory course, but I found the reading pleasantly stimulating."

"Oh?" Father Daniel said, a kind smile not quite obscuring his quiet disbelief. "I would have thought there wasn't much in it that you hadn't covered with the Sunday School students."

Una considered this. "No," she admitted, "but there is something to be said for being forced to articulate simple principles. I've often found that explaining Bible stories to the primer class requires me to consider the essence of the lesson without extraneous clutter."

Father Daniel tapped his ring on the side of his chair, the high back and tufted armrests lending him a professorial authority not quite in keeping with his fidgeting. "Indeed," he said thoughtfully. "Tell me, what is your favorite lesson to teach to the primer class?"

Una spoke without hesitation: "The Good Samaritan."

"Not Noah's Ark?"

"No," Una said. When the priest allowed silence for her to elaborate, she explained: "It is difficult to explain why God would save cows and sheep, but drown every child in the world."

Father Daniel started at the bluntness of her answer, but nodded. "I would not think that many children would notice that aspect of the story," he said quietly.

"They do. Some of them anyway. When my brother Bruce was a child, he used to fixate on the suffering of children: the Flood, the deaths of the firstborn of Egypt, the slaughter of the Canaanites. Of course, he grew up during the War. But there is usually one child in every class who sees it that way."

The priest smiled, perhaps a bit wistfully. "I suppose you were such a child yourself. They often grow up to pursue ministry. Did your brother?"

"Yes," Una admitted. "He has the Presbyterian church in Cherry Valley."

"And his sister will be an Anglican deaconess," Father Daniel said, amused. "There's a story there, I'm sure. But since we are supposed to be discussing _Introduction to Holy Scripture_ , perhaps you will tell me more about The Good Samaritan. Why do you like to teach it?"

Una flicked a glance toward her rumpled notes, but found that she did not need them. "It is the heart of Christ's message," she said. "To love one another and care for one another, no matter the danger or the expectations of society."

"Is it really that simple?" Father Daniel asked, his head cocked in interest.

"Yes."

The priest leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands outstretched to emphasize his eager questions. "Isn't it possible that the parable is an allegory? That the fallen man represents Adam, and the Samaritan is Christ? The priest and the Levite, representing the Law of the Old Testament and the Prophets, do not stop to aid the fallen man, but Christ brings him to the inn — or Church — where he nurses him and promises to come again?"

There was a hint of humor in Father Daniel's tone, and Una could not tell whether he was in earnest or if he meant to bait her. Either way, she frowned, shaking her head with grave sincerity.

"Origen of Alexandria would agree with you," she said, "and Saint Augustine as well. But I see no reason to ignore the plain reading of the text. Jesus taught the poor and the afflicted in ways that they could understand; why would he disguise his meaning in riddles?"

"Are you a Calvinist, then, Miss Meredith?" Father Daniel asked, surprise evident in his amusement.

"Certainly not," Una said, folding her hands in her lap. "Christ is for the many, not the few. Why then should his teachings be difficult to understand?"

Father Daniel nodded enthusiastically, shifting in his seat so that the typed lesson sheet slipped forgotten to the floor.

"Tell me, Miss Meredith, have you ever heard the name David Strauss?"

"Of course," she said simply. "I read his _Life of Jesus_ when I was a little girl."

"Extraordinary!" Father Daniel said, clapping his hands together in delight. "I can imagine you easily enough. Though I had no idea that Lowbridge boasted such a comprehensive library."

"You have not met my father," Una said. "He is the Presbyterian minister in Glen St. Mary. He has always had a passion for German theology, and keeps a very fine library."

"Does he? And you made yourself at home there, I see. Tell me, who else have you read?"

Una thought hard, wrinkling her nose in concentration as she conjured names and titles imprinted on the well-worn spines. "I only read the Germans that were available in translation," she said apologetically. "Schweitzer on the historical Jesus and Baur on the differences between Peter and Paul. The Scottish theologians were all in English, of course. My father's name is John Knox Meredith and another of my brothers is Thomas Carlyle, so Knox and Carlyle, as well as Cunningham on the Reformation . . ."

This bibliography was interrupted by Father Daniel's barking laugh as he raised his hands in a plea for abeyance.

"Have mercy, Miss Meredith!" he grinned. "You have me on the ropes already! As it is, I will be up all night reviewing my notes from seminary!"

Una blushed furiously, lowering her gaze to her lap and apologizing reflexively.

"No, indeed!" Father Daniel chortled. "Why should you ever apologize for knowledge? I was only thinking that this correspondence course may prove to be somewhat superfluous. There is an exam at the end, but I suppose you will not be stumped when asked to name the Books of the New Testament?"

Una smiled sheepishly. "I suppose not."

"Well then, let us consider this lesson at an end," he said, rising from his armchair. "Though I would be fascinated to know your thoughts on Strauss's idea of the mythical Jesus. Over tea, perhaps?"

*/*/*

Una had brought along a toothsome nutcake frosted in pink and white and studded with candied pecans. She knew that Father Daniel did not starve, but his part-time housekeeper, Mrs. Wiliams, tended rather toward the Aunt Martha school of cookery in a way that had suited the elderly Father Kirkland but must have been something of a trial to anyone else. Mrs. Williams only came to the rectory two mornings a week to clean and cook up an indescribable pot of something-or-other to see Father Daniel through the other days. Father Daniel did not complain, except to refer to his rations as "Bully Beef" and accept any and all gifts of food and invitations to dine abroad.

Thanks to careful packing, Una's confection had survived the tricycle journey with only minimal damage, easily remedied with a quick flick of a butterknife. It made a lovely centerpiece for the tea table, though Father Daniel was enthusiastic in his appreciation for its non-visual qualities as well.

"Tell me," he said, cutting a second slice, "how did a daughter of the Presbyterian manse come to be studying for the Anglican diaconate?"

Una searched for words, finding that it was difficult to describe any but the most straightforward details. "My step-mother was raised in this parish," she said. "She left it to marry my father, but she would come back occasionally, and I would come with her. It . . . felt right. Especially after the War."

Father Caldwell nodded, studying her face as she spoke. "Not the theology, then?" he asked.

"That, too," she admitted. "The Elect never sat well with me. When Father Kirkland told me the story of St. Elizabeth — how her family did not approve of her charity, but she hid her loaves under her skirts and fed the poor anyway, and God saved her from her family's wrath by turning her bread to roses — it made better sense."

"Better sense than Cunningham on the Reformation?" Father Daniel asked with a gentle smile.

Una's teaspoon tinkled against the side of her cup, a musical sound like a tiny bell, cheerful and friendly. "Cunningham was unfailingly sensible," she said. "My eldest brother Jerry — he's a judge in Charlottetown — he loved Cunningham and all the Calvinist controversialists. A rational argument and a rational faith. But I don't know that Cunningham's cleverness ever fed the hungry."

"What about spiritual hunger?" Father Daniel said, leaning avidly over the crumbs of his vanished nutcake. "Don't we need scholars and theologians to feed the mind?"

"Perhaps," Una conceded, conscious that he very much wanted her to agree with him, even if she did not. Conceding to the appeal in his manner, she said, "I think you would get along well with my father. He loves a good theological maze, and will spend a week sleuthing out an answer, lost to the world and his congregation."

She did not say _and his family_ , though it was on the tip of her tongue. It would be disloyal, no matter how true. She swallowed instead, taking a gulp of tea that scalded her tongue as just penance.

"I should be delighted to meet him," Father Daniel said, oblivious. "I really should get to know the other clergy in the area, particularly in these uncertain times. Tell me, does Rev. Meredith approve of inter-denominational cooperation in times of trouble?"

Una thought of the infamous Union Prayer Meeting of 1916 and Uncle Norman shaking fat, florid little Josiah Pryor to the jeering approbation of Presbyterians and Methodists alike.

"He did during the last war," she said. "I expect this time will be the same."

"Splendid! I'll invite him for dinner sometime, shall I? That is," he grimaced, "he isn't any sort of gourmand, your father?"

It was Una's turn to laugh, an elusive sound that matched the fairy falls of silver on china. "No, indeed," she said through a genuine smile. "He's quite famous for his indifference to food. Why, before he married my stepmother . . ."

She broke off. What did Father Daniel care for stories of Ditto and the time before Rosemary West came to the manse? There were stories to be told, of course, but only to friends and family. Explaining Ditto would mean explaining Aunt Martha and explaining Aunt Martha would mean explaining Mother and really, that was all rather too much for a Tuesday afternoon.

"My stepmother is a wonderful cook," Una said, recovering her poise. "I'll see that they invite you to the manse, shall I?"

* * *

Notes:

*Under the BCATP agreement, airmen from Australia and New Zealand did their initial training at home and then traveled to Canada for advanced training. One of the major advantages of Canada was that Canadian (and American) manufacturers could supply many of the necessary aircraft. After the attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, the RAAF and RNZAF did advanced pilot training in the Pacific. The BCATP program also trained pilots from South Africa, Bermuda, and Southern Rhodesia, along with many pilots from countries that weren't officially at war yet, particularly the United States.


	34. An Awful Repast

**An Awful Repast***

* * *

January 1940

* * *

 _And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea,  
_ _And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,  
_ _Over the hoarse surging of the sea,  
_ _Or flitting from brier to brier by day,  
_ _I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird,  
_ _The solitary guest from Alabama._

 _Blow! blow! blow!  
_ _Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore;  
_ _I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me._

\- Walt Whitman, "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"

* * *

In the year of our Lord 1640, the God-fearing Presbyterians of Scotland enacted through their representatives in Parliament an Act for the Abolition of Yule, declaring that "the kirke within this kingdome is now purged of all superstitious observatione of dayes." Instead of reveling in gluttony and wickedness like their Southron neighbors, the godly Scots profaned Christmas Day with commerce and ordinary housework to show that no day was more holy than any other. Unless, of course, Christmas Day happened to fall on a Sunday, in which case they observed the Sabbath with grim determination and many protestations that it was the day of the week, and not Christ's nativity, that demanded their repose.

Alas and alack! Three centuries of backsliding later, their ungrateful descendants across the sea saw nothing at all amiss in tarting up a "Presbyterian" church with evergreen garlands and Advent fripperies. Why, the minister of such a church — if one so far fallen truly deserved the title — might even be heard to say that Advent was the busiest season in his year, and that he must, with regrets, postpone his dinner party with the local Episcopal priest until the Yuletide festivities had concluded. Thus it came to pass that the Reverend John Knox Meredith, degraded bearer of a pious name, sat down with his family to a convivial meal in company with Father Daniel Caldwell on the first Sunday after Epiphany in the year of our Lord 1940.

* * *

Carl liked the look of the jolly little priest. Or, at least he might have liked him if he had been in a more generous mood. In Carl's current fog of gloom, Father Daniel might have _looked like the Archangel Michael and talked with the tongues of men and angels_ and it would not have made a bit difference. Oh, he seemed nice enough. Although . . . was that a _motorcycle_ parked in the driveway? But Father Daniel seemed a conventional guest in all other respects, presenting Rosemary with a gift of a potted African violet of his own cultivation and introducing himself to John and Carl with a warm smile and a two-handed handshake. Una hovered nearby, pink-cheeked from the cold, even when they sat to dinner.

Carl took the single chair across from Una and her guest. Who had set the table this way? This was Faith's place, and it felt decidedly odd to occupy it. The perspective was all wrong.

"I've heard a good deal of praise for your cooking, Mrs. Meredith," said Father Daniel, his round face shining as he surveyed the feast arrayed before him. "But nothing could have prepared me for such a scrumptious-smelling bounty."

"Please do call me Rosemary," replied that good lady with a gracious smile. "And certainly you must sample my cooking before you celebrate it, or you may come to regret your enthusiasm."

Father Daniel laughed, assuring his hostess that she must, in turn, call him Daniel, and that he had no notion of being disappointed. He was awfully familiar, wasn't he? But Father and Rosemary were smiling, so Carl tamped down his irritation.

"Will you say grace for us, Daniel?" Father asked.

"I'd be delighted," said that easily delighted gentleman. "Do you join hands around the table for grace?"

"We do," Una said, beginning her self-correction almost before she had finished speaking. "Carl and I do, I mean. Now, that is. Not when we were growing up."

"I don't mind joining hands," Father said, reaching out to Una on one side and Carl on the other. Father's hand was cool and steady, and for a moment, Carl felt less jittery. Grace would do him good.

Father Daniel extended his own hands to both Rosemary and Una. "Tell me, Miss Meredith," he said with a spark in his eye, "am I allowed to say a Common-Prayer grace in a Presbyterian manse?"

"I think you will find this an ecumenical table," Una replied. "Besides, it has been said here often enough before, if perhaps not aloud."

Father Daniel chuckled and bent his head to pray, as did Una. Carl squinted across the table at the priest. They were awfully friendly, weren't they? Una had mentioned that she was studying with the new priest, but Carl had imagined someone like elderly, taciturn Father Kirkland, whom he had met on two occasions, one of which being that good gentleman's funeral. There had not been much difference in the conversation. But this? This was something else entirely. Carl nearly missed the grace, concentrating as he was on the linked hands of the supplicants. Yes, the man definitely wore a wedding ring.

 _Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.**_

Among those mercies was the meal before them. There was no rationing — not yet anyway — which meant a sugar glaze for the turnips and fluffy white-flour biscuits with butter in abundance. Rosemary had long since adjusted her recipes to use vegetable shortening instead of lard or drippings, but the presence of a clerical colleague demanded a full dinner with meat as its centerpiece. In this case, a beautifully roasted wild duck, skin brown and crackling, _trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver and heart and gizzard_. Father carved dexterously, serving glistening morsels of meat to everyone but Carl.

"A rare treat!" Father Daniel enthused as Una passed him the first plate. "We hardly ever got ducks at my posting in Toronto, and only in the autumn, I think."

"One of my congregants brought us a brace yesterday," John explained. "We have a winter hunting season here for sea ducks. This is one of those black-and-white sort. What are they called, Carl?"

"Eider," said Carl, serving himself a pile of brussels sprouts. The rich aroma of the dripping duck fat made him feel queasy, and he privately looked on the company as _little better than cannibals_.

"Oh yes," Rosemary said. "The ones with the very soft, warm down. I noticed it as I was cleaning them. I thought I might save it for a quilt, but I suppose you'd need a hundred ducks to get enough."

"You know," Carl frowned, "eiderdown can be harvested from wild ducks without harming them. People wait until they feather their nests and then go out and collect the down from around the eggs."

"Don't the eggs get cold?" Una asked, regarding her own serving of duck with some ambivalence.

"You can replace the down with hay," Carl explained. "It works well enough. Eider were endangered once, but now they're one of the great success stories of the Migratory Birds Treaty of 1916. Thirty years ago, there were only a few hundred nesting pairs in this area. Now there are thousands."

"That's good to hear," Father Daniel said, tucking into his meal. "After the Flood, the renewal. _Be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth_."***

Carl scowled across the table. "It wasn't the Flood that endangered the eider. It was over-hunting."

"Then I'm very glad to hear that they have recovered," said Father Daniel, chewing appreciatively. "Rosemary, this bird is done to a turn. Marvelous. Do tell me a little of your history, won't you? Miss Meredith has told me that you play the piano?"

The conversation moved on to music lessons and the genealogy of the West family and was beginning to come 'round to the subject of Ellen and courting and spitched-eel wedding suppers when Carl interrupted.

"Eider are very noble birds," he said to no one in particular. "I often think they are the most generous of the ducks."

Rosemary looked surprised, but asked, "Are ducks generous?"

"Eider are," Carl nodded. "Self-sacrificing, even. Did you know that when a mother eider is sitting on her eggs, she doesn't eat for weeks and weeks? She stays on her nest the whole time and loses a third of her bodyweight keeping the eggs warm. Some mothers even starve to death protecting their clutches."

"That is certainly noble," Father said judiciously, "though the mother's sacrifice can't come to much if the ducklings perish as well."

"But they don't!" Carl said, warming to his subject. "Eider raise their ducklings in crèches. You see, after the eggs hatch, the mothers have to spend weeks feeding and regaining their strength. Eider ducklings are raised by their aunties — older, non-breeding females with experience raising the young. One auntie might look after the broods hatched by three or four or five young mothers. I once saw an eider auntie with 27 little ducklings queepling along behind her in a line."

He wiggled his fingers before his face to mime the gentle bumbling of baby ducks, desisting only when he noticed the tight neutrality of Una's expression.

"Very admirable," said Father Daniel through a mouthful of duck. "Perhaps it shows the tender heart of the female in any species."

"Sex has nothing to do with it," came Carl's _flat contradiction_. He ignored Una's startled intake of breath. "The male eider are just as caring. In wintertime, eider crowd together in the water to keep warm, so close to one another you can't even distinguish one bird from the next. And then the males take turns swimming around the perimeter of the group to keep the water moving so it doesn't freeze. That way they all survive together."

"That's quite fascinating, Carl," Rosemary said with a warning edge in her voice. "To think that we can learn such useful morals from the animal kingdom."

Father Daniel bobbed his head in agreement. "Indeed! Recall the pelican, who feeds her young on the blood of her own breast. When I was in England, our hospital chapel had a pelican motif on its altar frontal: the mother nourishing her chicks with her blood as Christ does for his people."

"Pelican chicks eat fish . . ." Carl said skeptically.

" _To his good friend thus wide I'll ope my arms / And like the kind, life-rendering pelican / Repast them with my blood,_ " recited John Meredith.**** "Now that is Shakespeare, but the point is the same. Do you say you were a hospital chaplain, Daniel?"

Talk turned to England and Daniel's service in the last war, first at a Canadian hospital near London and later as a battalion chaplain at the front. The duck disappeared into second helpings, one red slice after another falling from its plump breast.

"I once saw an eider die of grief," Carl said to himself. "They form long-term pair bonds, but they don't winter together. They just meet up in the spring. Sometimes one doesn't make it back . . ."

Rosemary stood abruptly. "I need to set the dessert to warm," she said. "Carl, will you please assist me?"

Carl blinked his confusion, but noticed the thin line of Una's tight-pressed lips and did as he was bid. Taking up several empty plates, he followed Rosemary to the kitchen, where he found her standing with her arms folded.

"Are you feeling quite well?" Rosemary asked, a bit tersely.

"Perfectly well," Carl mumbled, though he did not meet her gaze.

"Really?" Rosemary asked. "I had hoped that you might offer some excuse."

"For what?"

"For being so rude to Una's guest."

Carl pulled a face that would have done credit to the ten-year-old he had been when Rosemary first became his mother. "I was just making conversation."

Rosemary said nothing and then more nothing, waiting until Carl became curious and looked up of his own accord. It was not her way to scold the Meredith children, having ever delivered on her promise to be a friend to them, rather than the dragon of Mary Vance's dire imaginings.

 _"What is the matter, Carl?" asked Rosemary gently._

 _"Nothing," said Carl rather shortly._ Nothing he could say to Rosemary, anyway.

 _"If you'd like to tell me, I'll be glad to listen. But if you'd rather not — that's all right, too, dear."_

Carl _took a long, earnest look into Rosemary's eyes_ , but could not bring himself to speak, not even when she reached out a velvety hand and caressed his cheek.

"Have you considered taking a vacation?" Rosemary said quietly. "You always go to Kingsport after the New Year."

Kingsport meant Aster House and Aster House meant Di and Sylvia and every fourth chair yawningly vacant.

"I don't want to go to Kingsport," Carl said dully.

"Well then, how about Toronto?"

She said it casually, but Carl stiffened nevertheless. In this house, the wheels of harmony were greased with evasion, and it was a shock to have the brake applied so suddenly.

"I recall that you boys used to get leave every once in a while?" Rosemary continued.

Carl's irritation had receded like the border of a frost-rimed window facing east toward the sunrise. Alert and curious, he prodded cautiously at this unlooked-for acknowledgement.

"Yes, every once in a while."

"I understand that officers get rather more of it," Rosemary said, returning Carl's astonished gaze frankly and taking the West family china from his hands, lest he shatter it through inattention.

"That's true," Carl said, "but only when they can be spared. It's a very busy time."

"All the more reason you should go. A weekend pass isn't enough time to come home, but I believe Toronto is much closer, isn't it?"

Carl managed to nod.

"You should go. It might settle your mind to see that it's only a train ride away."

Rosemary set the china in the sink and busied herself over pound cake and cherry preserves while Carl swept up his scattered thoughts. They had only spoken frankly the one time, and filled the intervening thirteen years with chatter over children and the weather. But Rosemary had indeed been a friend once, and Carl was in terrible need of a friend.

"I might put him in more danger," he murmured, so softly that she might not have heard.

Rosemary clicked a stack of dessert plates onto the tray. "I can't say that you're wrong," she said. "But do consider it, won't you?"

"I will."

"And Carl?" Rosemary paused as she pushed the kitchen door open with her back. "No more duck talk tonight. You're giving Una fits."

* * *

Notes:

*Quotations throughout (and title) from _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 19, "Poor Adam!" and chapter 20, "Faith Makes a Friend." Carl's ants die of grief in _Rainbow Valley_ and a dog [nearly] dies of grief in _Anne of Ingleside_.

**I will spare you the details re: the controversies over the 1928 revisions to the Book of Common Prayer. This grace is from the American edition of 1928 — I am interpreting Daniel as someone who was pro-revision and familiar with all the versions in circulation.

***Genesis 9:1

**** _Hamlet_ , Act 4, Scene 5

It's been a while since I publicly thanked MrsVonTrapp for all her wonderful beta reads of these chapters. Thank you so much for all of your time and kindness and sharp insights. Sorry about the duck :( I'll make it up to you with some more Jerry at some point.


	35. K Eddy 302

**K Eddy 302**

* * *

January 1940

(updated to clarify re: "cash and carry" and the Neutrality Act of Nov. 1939)

* * *

 _8 January 1940_

 _Dear Uncle Shirley,_

 _I'm awful sorry you couldn't come to Ingleside for Christmas. It wasn't especially jolly, I can tell you that. Sam couldn't get leave from officer candidate school long enough to come home either, though he sent a letter saying he'll be posted to the Royal Regiment when he's commissioned. Jims came up to say goodbye — he is going to Kingsport to take a job in a shipyard. He says that the money is very good._

 _The whole family was pretty cut up. I guess it's a good thing none of the girls believe in Santa Claus anymore. Grandad put on his old suit like always, but even he couldn't keep it up for long._

 _Wally and I hightailed it out of there as soon as we could and sat out in the garage talking a while. He sure is sweet on Zoe Maylock, that's for sure. It makes no difference to me and I told him so. I think he was glad to hear it._

 _I guess Wally may get into the Navy before I get anywhere near the RCAF, even if he does have to wait til he graduates. When we got home to Toronto I had a letter saying that my basic training is delayed again. Dad says I should go back to school and just wait until they call me up to the manning depot. How can I just wait? Sometimes I can barely sit still, itching to get into a Spitfire. The RAF needs pilots right away — you know they do. Isn't there anything you can do to get me called up faster?_

 _I guess I will go back to college in the meantime. Mum and Dad are glad, at least, and Victoria, too. She got me a silk scarf for Christmas, just like a real pilot. It was nice of her, and made me sorry for scaring her with that elephant beetle when she was small. Funny, isn't it — I never paid Victoria much mind, except to fight with her, but now I think I will miss her if I ever manage to get into this war._

 _I suppose you're busy up at Camp Borden. If you do have some leave, though, you could come to Toronto. It isn't far. But I hope you will not get the chance because I'll get to Borden before you can get away. I guess they can't keep me out forever._

 _In the meantime, I'll keep on with my maths like you said. I practice shooting, too. There's a rifle range in the basement of Hart House and I try to get in an hour of practice three times a week. Whenever my turn comes, I'll be ready._

 _I hope you are well. Kiss a Harvard for me._

 _Your loving nephew,_

 _Gil_

* * *

The coffee in the officers' mess was hot. That was just about all that could be said for it, but that was enough on a day like this, when the weather howled down from Lake Huron and visibility was rubbish. They had a war to win and cadets to train, but it wouldn't do anyone any good to get the boys killed in a squall before they were half-fledged. Better to put them through a morning of lectures and then give them a rare afternoon off. Most had put on their pads and gone to play hockey against some of the Armoured Corps lads, unbothered by the inclement weather.

The officers had retired to their mess to chat and play cards. Flight Lieutenant Holyoke had invited Shirley to join the junior flight instructors in a hand or two, but Shirley felt awkward about taking money off of men he commanded. Instead, he sat alone, nursing his coffee and trying to think of something besides the telegram in his pocket: _K Eddy 302_.

"Let's have a game of chess, Blythe," said McMullen, clapping Shirley on the shoulder. "You do play, don't you?"

They set the board before the fire that Davenport had built with crackling, fragrant pine that burned hot and too fast. Would Carl and Una have enough wood this winter? Carl knew better than to use soft, resin-y pine, but he wasn't used to stocking enough hardwood for a whole season. They usually went to Kingsport this time of year. Would their supply hold through a true cold snap?

Shirley moved his pieces mechanically, playing a conservative defense that would pass one of the hours until the 5:17 train left the Camp Borden station for Toronto. He had stepped in as acting CO over Christmas so that McMullen could spend the holiday with his kids; it hadn't been difficult to get a bit of leave in return. Not a full 10 days, mind, not with the new cadet class coming in next week. But McMullen could spare him for 48 hours. Shirley checked his wristwatch and lit a cigarette.

Two figures approached the game and hovered while McMullen contemplated his rook. Shirley looked up to find Flight Lieutenants Ramsay and Trent, one wisp-thin and dark, the other squat and fair, both with wind-chapped cheeks, shivering as they began to thaw before the fire.

"Well, what is it, Ramsay?" McMullen barked, his finger still on the active piece.

"It's the new Harvards, sir. We've just come from the hangar. Sergeant Dixon says the ground crews are finished checking four of them and can probably finish the fifth this evening, but he wants to wait til the storm passes to fuel them up."

That was good news. With the five new Harvards operational, they could train intermediate and advanced cadets at the same time.

"Excellent, Ramsay, excellent," McMullen said, deciding he didn't want to take Shirley's bishop after all. "Have some coffee, both of you. You look done in."

Trent turned toward the coffee urn on the sideboard by the windows, but Ramsay lingered.

"Sir, if I may ask . . . where do they come from?"

"What?"

"The Harvards, sir. Where do they come from?"

It was a good question, come to think of it. Shirley hadn't wondered that himself, but perhaps he should have.

McMullen sat back in his armchair and squinted at the earnest young flight instructor. "Why, they come from the Aero Fairy, of course. Didn't your mother ever teach you anything, Ramsay?"

Ramsay blushed as several of the other junior officers chuckled over their cribbage at a nearby table, their own conversation abandoned.

"I only meant, well, the Harvards were built by North American Aviation, weren't they?" Ramsay observed. "Last I heard, North American was a California company. But the Yanks are neutral — they can't deliver guns or ammunition or ships or . . ."

"Or aircraft. Correct. Auditioning for the Intelligence Services, are you?"

"Sorry, sir."

McMullen flapped a dismissive hand. "Oh, it's quite alright. No shame in being clever. We could use a bit more of that around here sometimes," he bellowed for the benefit of the peanut gallery. "But I'm afraid it will have to remain a mystery. Sorry, Ramsay."

"Of course, sir. Sorry, sir." Ramsay saluted and retreated toward the coffee, enduring some ribbing from the cribbage table as he pulled up a chair.

Shirley turned back toward the board, puzzling over the question as he took a drag on his cigarette. The Harvards were brand new, no doubt about that. And they definitely hadn't been manufactured in Canada. Just this month, Noorduyn Aviation in Montreal had gotten the first order for Canadian-built Harvards, but hadn't actually built any yet. De Havilland was turning out Tiger Moths as fast as they could, but those were trainers for beginners — they certainly weren't making Harvards.*

"It's the stupidest thing, really," McMullen grumbled quietly. "Barely even a secret."

"But it is a secret, sir?" Shirley interjected, giving McMullen a chance to have second thoughts before saying anything he shouldn't.

McMullen shot him a derisive glare. "Blythe, if you're a spy, I have much bigger problems than where Harvards come from."

Well, if the CO wanted to spill his guts, that was his lookout. The truth was that Shirley was curious, besides being eager for anything that might distract him from _K Eddy 302_ until it was time.

"Ramsay's quite right, you know," McMullen said. "The Yanks can't deliver aircraft directly to the RCAF anymore. Cash and carry, they call it, but they can't fly planes to Canada. We got fifteen Harvards from them back in September, but then their Congress passed the blasted Neutrality Act and froze us out."

He advanced his queen in the front half of a two-pronged attack.

"So you see," he continued, "it's illegal for North American to fly a brand new Harvard to Canada. But it's NOT illegal for them to fly one to an open field in North Dakota or Minnesota or Maine . . . maybe a field very, very close to the border . . . and just . . . leave it there."

"Leave it, sir?" the pieces began to click into place even as Shirley asked.

"Oh, it's all pre-arranged. Our boys put on their civvies and hitch up a team of horses to tow the things over to the next field, which is, of course, Canadian. Damnedest thing, hauling Harvards with horses. Horses!"

"I've done that," Shirley said, moving a lowly pawn to protect his knight. "Towed a kite with horses, I mean. When I was a kid, the only place I had to store my Curtiss was an old sheep barn. When I needed to get it down to the water, I'd hire a friend who had a team of huge black draft horses. I forget what they're called. Something French."

McMullen pondered for a moment. "Percherons?"

"Yes, sir. Percherons. Very steady animals."

"Well if the brass ever comes around asking for pilots for a pickup, I'll know who to nominate," McMullen chuckled. "There's talk now of landing some of the new birds on the St. John River up in New Brunswick. The border runs smack down the middle. What d'ya think, Blythe, can horses walk on ice?"

"They can if you shoe them with ice cleats," Shirley shrugged.

"Well look at you, farm boy!" McMullen guffawed. "Who knew?"

Shirley flicked his butt into the fireplace. "It all sounds like a colossal waste of time to me, sir."

"You can say that again. Hell, when the Yanks were delivering the first batch of Harvards, they missed the border altogether and were 100 miles into Alberta before they realized their mistake. Had to turn around and re-cross the bloody border just to keep up the charade."

Well, no one ever said maintaining appearances was efficient.

"You said fields, sir," Shirley observed. "Are they really landing them without runways?"

"Oh, they've patched things up a bit," McMullen admitted. "Smoothed out the buffalo wallows and gopher holes. The place in Maine is really a proper airstrip — it was right on the New Brunswick border to begin with, and they just lengthened the runway so it stops right at the line."

"I think I know that place," Shirley said. "Houlton, Maine, isn't it, sir?"

"It is indeed, Blythe, it is indeed," McMullen said, his eyes dancing with amusement. "But tell me, why would you be so familiar with an airstrip just over the American border, eh? No clandestine missions of your own, I hope."

"Of course not, sir." Shirley answered, allowing a hint of mischief to show as he put McMullen in checkmate.

*/*/*

At 7:30, Shirley stepped into the lobby of the King Edward Hotel in downtown Toronto and approached the desk. It was impossible to walk about inconspicuously in RCAF getup these days, even without stripes on your sleeves, but there was nothing Shirley could do about that.

There was some sort of tussle behind the desk as two hostesses tripped over one another to bid him welcome. A slender, black-eyed woman with Jean Harlow brows pulled rank and sent her companion off to perform some less enticing task.

"Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?" she asked through a dazzling smile.

"I have a reservation. The name is Blythe."

The hostess consulted a stack of cards, beaming when she found the right one. "Blythe. What an enchanting name! I see we have you for two nights in room 437?"

There was a brief exchange of paperwork and keys, and the Harlow-browed woman signaled a bellhop.

"No, that's quite alright," Shirley said, lifting his small overnight bag into view. "I don't need any assistance."

"If there's anything at all I can do to make your stay more comfortable, _anything at all_ , please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thanks."

"Enjoy your stay, Commodore," she said, promoting Shirley several ranks in her imagination.

"Thank you. I'm sure I will."

He made his way to the elevator and asked the uniformed operator for the fourth floor. Strange how an elevator felt a bit like takeoff, the floor pressing up into your feet for a brief moment of heaviness before you started moving at the same speed as everything around you.

On the fourth floor, Shirley tipped the elevator operator and stepped purposefully into the corridor. He scanned the deserted hallway until he found the stairs, then slipped through the door. Down the echoing concrete to the third floor, heart reciprocating ungovernably. There was a couple far down at the other end of the hall and Shirley waited for them to round a corner before he turned the other way, past 308 and 306 and 304 . . .

He took a deep breath before rapping gently on 302.

He didn't have to wait long. Before the echo of the knock died, Carl was pulling him into the room and locking the door behind him.

* * *

Notes:

*In January of 1940, Noorduyn Aviation in Montreal got the first order for Canadian-built Harvards. They produced 2,800 of them over the course of the war, but none yet.

De Havilland aviation was working on the de Havilland Mosquito was known as "The Wooden Wonder." When it debuted in 1941, it was the fastest aircraft in the world, and was used as a fighter, bomber, and transport. The fact that the Mosquito was made of wood (including most of the frame, fuselage, wings, and tail) meant that it could be manufactured even during shortages of steel and aluminum, and parts could be made by woodworking companies.

The whole US-Canadian aircraft-delivery scheme was bonkers and also true. I recommend the article "Horses on the Payroll" by Jerry Vernon, _RCAF Journal_ , (Spring 2016, vol 5. Issue 2). bit . ly / 2Msrpf3

The King Edward Hotel is a luxury hotel in downtown Toronto, well known in the first half of the 20th century as a safe-ish meeting place for wealthy gay men (it was also across the street from one of Toronto's early gay clubs). I don't suppose two country boys from PEI would know much about Toronto hotels, but it's the sort of tidbit that might have figured into some memorable stories over a poker table back in Redmond days.


	36. Not Because We Will

**Not Because We Will**

* * *

January 1940

* * *

 _But each day brings its petty dust_  
 _Our soon-chok'd souls to fill,_  
 _And we forget because we must,_  
 _And not because we will._

\- Matthew Arnold (1822-1888), "Absence"

* * *

"No, Mugsy!" Una scolded, shooing the guilty little terrier away from the siren scent of chicken giblets wafting from the Ingleside pantry. "Go lie down by the fire like a sensible beastie and you'll have the innards when they're good and ready."

Faith grinned, holding the kitchen door open for Muggins as Una chivvied her out. The dog whined in protest, but desisted when Dr. Blythe senior appeared at the living room threshold and scooped her into his arms.

"Come sit with me a spell," he said, scratching her ears but grinning at Una. "It's been a while since I had a dog to help me lounge in front of a fire properly."

Behind Dr. Blythe, the living room was the very picture of creature comfort, the squashy sofa and becushioned armchairs bathed in the frolicsome flickering of a merry fire. Over by the silent radio, Jem and Mrs. Blythe sat together at a small table, salt-and-cayenne heads bent low over case notes and correspondence. Outside, a gentle flurry sent flakes to kiss the windowpanes, frigid but harmless to all within the hearth-fire's reach. Dr. Blythe settled Muggins beside him on the sofa, petting with one hand and wrangling the newspaper — _Soviet Warplanes Pour Destruction on Finnish Cities; Nazi Drive in Prospect?_ — with the other.

Una slipped back toward the kitchen, leaving them all to their leisure.

"I'm sorry again for imposing on you," she said to Faith as she rolled up her sleeves and retrieved the butter tray from the icebox.

Faith laughed, tying up her hair in a silk scarf she had brought home from France in '36. "You're hardly a difficult guest, love. I'm likely to end the week with more clean linen than I started and a pantry full of pies besides."

"Only if Muggins doesn't get to them first. I really am sorry about her. She's out of sorts, being left behind."

 _Again._

"But Carl will be back soon?" Faith asked, scrupulously attentive to her flour-measuring for once.

The butter slices fell under Una's knife with perfect regularity, each creamy square exactly like all the others. "Yes. Tuesday, I think, or perhaps Wednesday."

"Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you like," Faith said. "Ceci was over the moon last night when her cream puffs turned out so well. She's been trying to get me to teach her, but mine are better for hockey than tea."

The creampuffs in question were currently residing under a glass dome in the pantry, awaiting Ceci's return from school. She'd be along any minute, pink-cheeked and eager to help with the pies; Una had promised to demonstrate the proper technique for making a lattice top. At going-on-fourteen, Ceci Blythe seemed poised to inherit her mother's careless beauty, though she was more sweet pea than rose. Sometimes, she would whisper her secrets to Una over potato peels or tubs of bluing, which is why Una knew that she was anxious about leaving the Glen School for the wide world of Lowbridge High and that she worried she'd never be able to make anything just exactly the way Susan had.

If justice demanded a full and thorough accounting, it must be said that the creampuffs were not precisely "the Susan brand," but they were a good deal like creampuffs, which was more than could be said of previous attempts. Wally and Jemmy had certainly registered their appreciation, nicking extras on their way out the door this morning.

"It's only I didn't want to stay at home alone," Una explained, "nor leave Mugsy in a cold house when I went to Lowbridge."

"You don't have to justify yourself, Una. I'm happy to see you anytime." Faith's smile quirked into a something sharper. "Besides, it gives me a chance to ask whether you might have any news of your own?"

"News?" Una frowned, sinking the pastry cutter into the bowl. She doubted Faith wanted to hear about Georgie Newgate's strep throat or the bickering over whether the St. Elizabeth's chapter of the Red Cross should combine with the larger Lowbridge chapter or remain independent . . .

Faith caught her bottom lip between her teeth, biting the pink flesh white. "How are your deaconess lessons going?"

 _Oh, that._

"Fine, thank you," Una answered comfortably. "We had a very enjoyable discussion of the Q Hypothesis this week."

"And who, exactly, is _we_ ," Faith asked, all innocence.

"Why me and Father Daniel of course."

"Oh yes, of course."

Una stopped crumbling her butter and blinked at her sister, who seemed on the verge of an explosion of giggles. "Whatever are you on about Faith?"

Faith pulled the mixing bowl across the table to take her own turn, sinking her fingers into the forming dough with determined zeal. "Nothing, I'm sure," she said, still grinning. "It's only that Rosemary seems to think very highly of Father Daniel. She had . . . rather a lot to say about your dinner."

That dinner. Goodness, Una could have melted with embarrassment when Carl had gone on and on about the ducks. She had so wanted everything to go well. Of course, Father Daniel had left the manse with three books that Father believed he would enjoy and Rosemary had invited him back next month and Father Daniel himself had insisted that he had had the most marvelous time. But Una had still felt an odd pang of disappointment when Jenny-the-motorcycle disappeared around a bend in the road.

"I think Father Daniel will get on with Father and Rosemary very well," Una said, stepping toward the sink to wash her hands. "That's why I introduced them."

"Am I to understand that this Father Daniel is invited back to the manse sometime in the near future?"

"Well, he'll have to return Father's books at some point, I'm sure."

"Indubitably."

Just what was so funny? Faith was snickering the way she did when there was some particularly jolly prank afoot, the joy of it bursting out of her in little snorts. Well, Una had learned long ago that all would be revealed in time and no use pressing when Faith had gone silly like this.

"Don't over-work that dough," Una warned, drying her hands on a towel. "I'm going to go ask if anyone would like tea."

Una left Faith chortling over the pie crust, padding as noiselessly as a little gray mouse toward the living room. The firelight still danced through the archway and into the wood-paneled hall, but a pair of low, urgent voices made her pause just short of the threshold. Peering in, Una could see that Dr. Blythe and Muggins were snoring together under the newspaper, but she could not see Jem and Mrs. Blythe without them seeing her. Una was loath to eavesdrop, but the first overheard sentence petrified her where she stood.

" _Walter never bayonetted anyone, Mother._ "*

"But he wrote that he did," Mrs. Blythe said, her voice steady, if a bit faint. A paper crackled and she read:

" _And when the moon rose redly in the east,  
_ _I killed a stripling boy!  
_ _He might have been my brother slim and fair;  
_ _I killed him horribly and I was glad,  
_ _It pleased me much to see his dabbled hair,  
_ _The pale and pretty lad._ "

Una's breath caught in her chest. Surely that couldn't be one of Walter's poems. He never . . .

"I don't think he wrote that from experience," Jem said gently. " _But he saw . . . he saw . . ._ "

He trailed off, unable to summon words that could stand the blast of Walter's.

When Mrs. Blythe spoke, her voice was cool enough to send chills down Una's back, in spite of the fire.

" _I am thankful now, Jem, that Walter did not come back_ ," she said. " _He never could have lived with his memories . . . and if he had seen the futility of the sacrifice they made then mirrored in this ghastly holocaust . . ._ "

" _I know . . ._ " Jem said haltingly. " _I know. Even I who am a tougher brand than Walter . . . but let us talk of something else. Who was it said, 'We forget because we must?' He was right._ "

"Rubbish," Mrs. Blythe hissed. "I haven't forgotten."

Una clapped a hand to her mouth as if she could recapture her little gasp. Had she ever heard Mrs. Blythe speak harshly to anyone, let alone Jem? Of course they hadn't forgotten and never could forget. At the same time, there were hours — days, even — when the dead rested peacefully, coming only when they were summoned, rather than intruding as they once had. At least Una's dead did. Perhaps Mrs. Blythe's were more insistent.

"I didn't mean that you could ever forget Walter," Jem said apologetically. "I only meant that we must go on with the business of living. It's _we forget because we must, not because we will_."

"Well I _won't_."

There was a long silence, long enough that Una considered going in, perhaps to rescue Jem with innocuous offers of tea. But Mrs. Blythe spoke again, her own apology woven into her softened tone.

"Do you know, Jem, on the night before you went away to Valcartier, Susan and I packed up your things. I remember telling her about a time when you were _only a few months old and you cried for me in the night. Dad didn't want me to go to you — he thought you were warm and well and it would be fostering bad habits. But I went — and took you up — I can feel that tight clinging of your little arms round my neck yet._ I remember telling Susan that _if I hadn't gone that night and taken you up when you cried for me, I couldn't have faced that next morning."_ **

"I remember those nights with Sam," Jem said gently. "Though I can't say I ever tried very hard to resist going to him, whatever Dad or Morgan might have said about it."

"I've tried so hard, lately, to remember . . ." Mrs. Blythe whispered, ". . . to remember whether I ever went to Shirley like that."

"I'm sure you did."

"I'm not."

"Mum . . ."

"No. I'm not sure. Shirley never was much of a one for crying, not even when he was a tiny baby. Susan used to say he was saving up his strength. When he was a little older, he _always ran to Susan to be kissed for bumps and rocked to sleep._ And I can't help but wonder . . . would things be different between us now if I had done for him what I did for you?"

"Mum. Stop. You can't beat yourself up over a baby crying forty years ago. You were sick. There were so many of us. And Susan . . ."

"I don't mean when he was a baby," Mrs. Blythe cut him off. "I mean . . . oh, never mind."

"What, Mum?" Jem implored. "What happened between you two? I've never asked, but, it's clear that something did. When he and C . . . uhhh . . . when he went to the Caribbean that year and kept sending your letters back unopened . . ."

Una held her breath. She had had the story from Carl — in bits at least — but never from Shirley. All she knew was that it had been a long, slow road back to civility between Shirley and his parents. Whatever Mrs. Blythe had said or done, she certainly seemed to regret it.

"You have to understand," Mrs. Blythe pleaded. "We were only trying to help . . ."

Suddenly, the front door banged open in a great gust of icy wind and swirling flakes. "Hello! Mum! Dad! We're home!"

Una clutched a hand to her chest, her startled heart galloping frantically as Jemmy, Wally, and Zoe Maylock tumbled into the hall in a flurry of wooly scarves and high spirits. All conversation was obliterated by the young folks' chatter and Muggins' barks and the scrape of chairs as the adults came to greet them.

"Hi, Auntie Una!" Jemmy grinned, kissing her cheek with frigid lips. "Are there any of those cream puffs left?"

* * *

 _31 January 1940  
_ _Aster House  
_ _Kingsport, Nova Scotia_

 _Dear Carl,_

 _How are you getting along, honey? We miss you terribly. Sylvia was saying this morning that she feels suspended forever in the old year, as you always bring the new along in your luggage. It feels awfully bleak to come in from the cold after work and not find you at the table all inkstained and covered by a drift of papers, with Shirley tinkering at the radio and Mugsy snoring on the couch._

 _I'm afraid Aster House may soon be seeming even bigger than it does at present, as Syl has begun to get serious about the Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps. She couldn't get into the army in the last war because she wasn't a trained nurse then, but now nothing will stop her, not even me._

 _She had a meeting with a recruiting officer this week and the RCAMC is quite keen on her, what with her VAD service and her experience running her ward at the hospital here. She thinks they might commission her a Captain and have her serve as a matron._

 _I had hoped that 44 might be a bit too old for the army, but age means experience and the only thing they really seem to care about is that nurses are unmarried. The recruiting officer said Syl would make an ideal role model for the younger nurses (she saved that tidbit for last to make me laugh, which was both effective and much needed.) Of course I'm proud of her and she'll be doing good and necessary work, but I don't need to tell you I only give her up because I must and not because I want to._

 _Oh, Carl, do come visit a while this winter. I know it's a wrench coming here alone and Kingsport can have nothing on Toronto these days, but it's a dull, drab, dreary season without you. Bring Una along if you like — when was the last time she had anything like a vacation? And Mugsy, too. I don't know whether I ought to find some furry companion of my own to come home to or just work enough that I don't come home at all. Syl won't be going for a while yet, though — she told the hospital she'd stay at least through the end of February to help train her replacement. Come see us before then, or come after and keep me company for a week or two. I'd go for the RCAMC myself, but they've less need of obstetricians than we do here in Kingsport, so I must bide and muddle through somehow._

 _Don't even bother phoning — just come over. You still have your key? If not, you'll remember where the spare is. Nothing could be a better surprise than to come home one day and find you here._

 _Love always,_

 _Di_

* * *

Notes:

*The quoted conversation comes from _The Blythes Are Quoted_ , in which Anne shares Walter's "The Aftermath" with Jem. Jem's line saying that Matthew Arnold was right is the very last line of _TBAQ_ (and thus of AoGG canon for those who accept _TBAQ_ as such). I'm not adhering to everything in _TBAQ_ (for example, Susan lived until WWII), but I am taking Zoe Maylock from "A Commonplace Woman" and I have long been interested in Walter's poetry and the conversations around it.

**Quoted (and lightly edited for pronouns) from _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter VI: "Susan, Rilla, and Dog Monday Make a Resolution."


	37. In the Days of Langemarck Again

**In the Days of Langemarck Again***

* * *

May-June 1940

* * *

 _Did we plan as boys?  
You saw your clumsy toy planes  
With swift sure power,  
And you, laughing recklessly.  
I watched and loved the cold sea._

 _Did we have bright hopes?  
They're lost in one great passion.  
Our lives are offered,  
Yours on the swift wings of war,  
And mine to the daily chore._

\- Rev. Gordon Philpotts (1914-1971), "Kid Brother"**  
composed for the occasion of his brother, Laurie E. Philpotts of St. John, New Brunswick, earning his RCAF wings at Camp Borden (January 14, 1941)

* * *

On May 23, 1940, twenty-nine cadets received their wings in a ceremony at Camp Borden. McMullen had wanted thirty and had pushed hard for it, but Shirley refused to adjust his standards, in spite the news.

It was shocking, really. All spring the papers had been full of dire dispatches from Finland and Norway — ominous, of course, but spread out over a period of months. Then, on the 10th of May — God, not even two weeks ago? — the _Globe and Mail_ headline had landed like a war hammer:

HOLLAND, BELGIUM INVADED AT DAWN; BRUSSELS, ANTWERP BOMBED BY NAZIS

Every day since, the radio brought news of another staggering Nazi victory as the Wehrmacht rolled through Belgium and Northern France like an axe through butter. The stalemates and salients of the Great War, where vast armies had stalled and bludgeoned one another bloody for years in the last war, crumbled in mere days in this one.

Each evening, the Camp Borden flight instructors gathered in the officers' mess to hear BBC newscasters reel off the names they had learned to pronounce in their youth: Ypres, Poperinghe, Lens, Saint-Omer, Lille, Cambrai, Bapaume, Saint-Quentin, Arras, Douai, Bethune, Amiens. Insignificant little places like Vimy and Courcellette barely rated a mention when they were lost. The coastal cities, places with names that conjured visions of permanent hospitals and hot food and a bit of rest — Étaples, Boulogne, Calais — were falling right now, this very minute. The British Expeditionary Force, battered and cowering, was falling back and back and back to Nieuport and Dunkirk, and the next step backward would be into the sea.

The BBC was coy with numbers, but it didn't take a military genius to know that the Allies had lost hundreds of thousands of men, astounding numbers of aircraft, bewildering sums of equipment and munitions. Unfathomable.

Twenty-nine Borden cadets were ready to face the Luftwaffe, and Shirley passed twenty-nine.

The wings parade was held in a field near Camp Borden's control tower. Cadets — pilots now — stood to attention in formal service dress while McMullen pinned their glinting golden wings, cheered on by the intermediate classes, the ground crews, and over 1,000 visiting family, friends, and dignitaries.

At previous graduations, McMullen had given a short speech, but the unfolding disaster in France called for something rather more special to hearten the newest Allied pilots before they shipped out to meet their destiny. Accordingly, the RCAF had sent Air Marshal Billy Bishop, whose 72 aerial victories in the Great War — the most of any ace in the British Empire — had earned him a chestful of medals, including the Victoria Cross, and made him a bona fide Canadian hero. Even Shirley was slightly starstruck by the doughy, round-faced man who pumped his hand, grinning, "So you're Shirley Blythe, are you?"

Bishop addressed the crowd with firm resolution, assuring them that the current catastrophe was merely a setback and no reason to be in any way dismayed.

" _In 1918 over the same ground the same enemy smashed with all his might, and was turned back,"_ he assured them _. "Then came the glorious 100 days when, with Canada always in the air, we drove him to his knees in surrender._ "***

One hundred days. It had begun at Amiens, where Carl had lost his eye. From August til November, Canada was always in the air, or sometimes tumbling down through it, screaming toward a fiery death . . .

" _I can remember those black days, how we used to worry about the outcome, and our leaders then bade us stand firm and give two blows for one. 'Keep your tails up,' we were told_."

Had Billy Bishop even been in France during the Hundred Days? Hadn't they sent him back to Canada to do morale-boosting tours? Oh, he had come back to France for a while. Shirley remembered the rumors — unbelievable tales of scoring five victories in fifteen minutes in the summer of '18. Maybe they oughtn't have believed. Bishop was a legend, and maybe a bit of a myth as well. But he was here now, with twenty-nine fledgling pilots hanging on his every word. That was real enough.

" _The message is the same to you today. The Allies will win this war and win it in the air. But only after a desperate struggle which will call for a marshaling of all that is true and steadfast within us._ "

There was applause and saluting. The column formed up with the twenty-nine at its head and paraded past Air Marshal Bishop, their blue uniforms and his blue eyes and all those shiny golden wings dazzling in the afternoon light. Then the new-minted fliers of the RCAF scurried off to the hangars and strapped into their sun-yellow Harvards for a grand flyover, saluting their hero in formation.

Shirley didn't stay to watch. Instead, he went to the barracks to make sure that everything was ready to welcome the incoming class tomorrow.

* * *

On the fourth of June, Carl rattled up the road from the harbour in Shirley's old black Ford TT pickup. The _Sweet Flag_ 's rigging needed replacing, which felt like something comprehensible in a world gone mad. That meant a trip to Lowbridge and lots of heavy ropes, so Carl had biked over to the hangar this morning with Shirley's keys in his pocket.

He had been lax in checking in on the desolate place, where everything was stowed and shrouded and silent. Shirley had asked him to drive the truck every once in a while just to keep the engine happy, but Carl would just as soon have left it to the mice. He'd brought Mugsy over once, only to have her tear up the stairs to the apartment and then reproach him with large, sad eyes. Maybe he could figure out some way to take her with him to Ontario the next time he went. There had been some talk of renting a remote cottage on Lake Huron for a week at the end of the summer. No one could work all day every day forever without a proper break.

The truck had started on the third attempt, startling a murmuration of iridescent starlings from the hangar roof and sending them winging in a great black cloud above the overgrown runway. They were everywhere these days.

An uneventful trip to the marine supply store in Lowbridge, then back to Four Winds harbour under skies that threatened thundershowers. Carl had gotten the new rigging stowed in the cabin, but the installation would have to wait. He sprinted up the dock to the turn-out by the harbourmaster's shed, dodging the first fat drops and sliding into the driver's seat just as the skies opened.

Now Carl was jolting over the rutted road, peering through the deluge and looking forward to a hot cup of tea. He hoped Una hadn't been caught out in this, but no, she had more sense than that. Unlike the poor wretch on the roadside ahead, limping along toward Glen St. Mary looking like a drowned rat.

Carl had resolved to offer the man a ride even before he registered his height and the span of his shoulders and the small black bag he carried. Pulling up alongside the miserable figure, Carl flung the passenger-side door open and shouted, "Get in, Doc!"

Jem obeyed, tossing his bag into the cab and hoisting himself in after.

"Thanks a million," he said, pushing off his sodden cap and shaking out his damp curls. "You gave me quite a turn, though, driving up in this old thing."

Carl rounded his shoulders and shifted back into gear. "I'm just borrowing it."

Jem coughed into his fist. "Course. Sorry. I just meant . . . I did a double-take is all."

"Where's your car anyway?" Carl said setting a course for Ingleside.

"I like to walk sometimes."

"In this?"

"Yeah, well, I guess I didn't exactly check the weather this morning."

That was understandable, at least. The _Charlottetown Guardian_ printed the day's weather in tiny letters in the bottom corner of the first page. It was awfully hard to focus on it, though, what with the screaming headlines: MASS AIR RAID ON PARIS; NAZI BOMBERS RAIN DEATH ON FRENCH CAPITAL.

There were so many things that didn't really bear discussion. Not with Jem, anyway. Ever since Rainbow Valley days, Carl had held Jem in a bit of awe. He had been the undisputed chieftain of their little clan, bold and brash and game for anything, whereas Carl had been smaller even than Una, off on his own observing his ants, at least in the days before fishing. There had been a few times when Carl's creatures and Jem's own woodsy wanderings had intersected pleasantly — Carl had one vivid memory of hunting salamanders together among the rotten logs in a jungle of dew-damp ferns — but in general, Jem belonged to Jerry and Faith.

Though there had been that one time in Kingsport, when Carl had collapsed at the market, and Jem had hinted that he might know a bit about how it felt. Carl hadn't really believed him; Jem was invincible. But now he was soggy and rumpled and uncharacteristically quiet, dripping rainwater onto the seat of Shirley's truck.

"I saw in the paper that Lowbridge High graduation is on Saturday," Carl said, hoping to jump-start the conversation. "Is Wally excited?"

Jem did not answer right away. Carl could not see the face on his blind side, but he felt the shift of Jem's weight and heard the exhaustion in his exhalation.

"He was eighteen a month ago. Our agreement was that he had to finish high school before he joined the Navy. Come Saturday . . ."

Jem let the future hang, dangling unspoken, simultaneously unknowable and all too clear. Carl remembered his own eighteenth birthday, how he had been waiting when the recruiting office opened, clamoring for khaki. He'd left home on a _pale-yellow windy evening in October_ , headed for manhood by way of Charlottetown and one last visit to Mrs. MacDougal's. He had been proud and stupid and so heartbreakingly young.

"I'm sorry," Carl said.

"It's not your fault. Nothing I said could dissuade him."

"Well, I guess I know how that is."

The rain hammered insistently on the roof of the truck, echoing in the silence between them. Maybe he shouldn't have said that.

"How is Shirley anyway?" Jem asked, carefully casual.

Carl hit a pothole disguised as a puddle and jostled against the steering wheel.

"Easy there," Jem said, bracing himself against the glass. "We don't hear from him very often, is all. And I figured . . ."

Just what, exactly, Jem Blythe figured remained a mystery, as his confidence in this new policy of acknowledgment did not extend to the completion of that particular sentence. Still, there had been no malice in the question.

"Uhhh . . . he's alright," Carl said, groping for some neutral tidbit. "He met Billy Bishop."

"Really? Victoria Cross Billy Bishop?"

"The very same. He gave an address to the cadets at the last graduation ceremony."

"You'll have to tell Wally that," Jem said, evidently smiling. "He and Sam used to cut pictures out of _Flying Aces_ and tack them up in their room; I'm fairly certain old Billy's still up there. They were always wild for those stories."

They lapsed back into silence, Carl wondering how many of Jem's own stories he had told to his boys. There were a handful of favorites that got a good airing anytime Jem and Jerry or Emile were in the same place — the white shirt prank and a recitation of Robert Burns in the buff and the time Emile saved Jerry's hide from an irate French laundress when Jerry had mistaken the verbs _baisser_ and _baiser._ There were certainly others, though Carl had never lingered long in any room where they might be told.

"Rain always brings me back," Carl said mildly. "It's funny — it can't actually have rained every single day for years and years over there, but whenever I remember anything, it's always raining or just stopped raining or just about to rain."

Jem snorted. "And you weren't even on Salisbury Plain in '14. God, who knew it was possible for mud to be so deep? That's one good thing about the Navy, at least. Less mud."

"True," Carl agreed, though the thought of being confined in the strict, airless quarters of a naval vessel made him shiver. "And Sam?"

"Shipping out any day," Jem said tightly. "No details, of course. We had hoped he might be able to come home once more, but you know how it is."

Carl turned the truck into the deserted Glen street. There were lights and movement in the Douglas's store, the usual knot of radio-listeners having sought refuge inside for once. By the time they reached the Glen Pond, a freshet was surging down the slope from Ingleside, forcing Carl to drive down the middle of the road or be swept away.

"I saw your neighbor Archie again," Jem said as they chugged up the hill. "I haven't been able to convince him to apply for a pension yet, but I think he could get a partial one. I don't know how he's been farming all these years with that shoulder wound healed so badly and his back the way it is."

"They barely get by," Carl conceded. "I don't think they would at all if Una didn't take such an interest in them."

"How is Una? Faith was just saying the other day that she seems to be awfully busy lately."

Carl shrugged. "You know how she runs around trying trying to put everything right. And now that she has her deaconess courses, she's always studying or meeting with the priest."

Jem breathed a little laugh. "Oh, I heard about the priest, alright. Daniel, is it? Rosemary can't praise him enough. You met him, didn't you?"

Carl grimaced. "He seemed nice enough. I don't think I made a very good first impression, though."

He eased the truck to a stop in front of the house, leaving the engine running.

"Come in," Jem said. "Have some tea."

"No, that's alright."

"Carl. Come in. You're always welcome. And Faith will be glad to see you."

Indeed, she was. Wrapped in the solid warmth of his sister's embrace, Carl wished he could offer her better solace than a damp hug and silent sympathy. Well, he'd brought her husband home in one piece at least.

Wally was out — tucked up somewhere cozy with Zoe, no doubt — but the girls were home and put together an admirable spread for tea. Cecilia beamed with shy pleasure when Carl declared her eclairs better than Grandma Rosemary's, and Jemmy was bursting with news of the impending graduation festivities.

"I get to play the fanfare for the ceremony," she announced. "All of the first trumpets are graduating and half the seconds as well, so I get to be first chair even if I'm only a sophomore. Angus Perry said that he should be first because I mightn't have the lung strength for the solo, so we went out onto the football field together and played the fanfare over and over and over until he gave it up as a bad job."

Carl laughed appreciatively and congratulated his niece, promising that he would applaud her from the stands.

At the top of the hour, Jem excused himself to the sitting room. Carl started to help clear the table, but cocked his head when the radio crackled to life.

". . . _the evacuation from Dunkirk_ . . ."

"Leave the plates," Faith said, already stepping toward the door. "They'll keep."

They found Jem in the armchair closest to the radio, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Cecilia went and sat on the floor beside him, golden-brown head against his armrest, while Jemmy hovered behind his seat.

". . . _three hundred and thirty-five thousand troops, British and French, brought back from Dunkirk. British losses exceed thirty thousand killed, wounded and missing_. . ."****

Faith sank to the sofa, jaw set in a grim line, fists clenched in her lap. Carl remained in the doorway, frozen. The evacuation was no surprise — it had been going on for the last few days. But to hear it all summed up like this . . .

". . . _young fliers, greater than Knights of the Round Table or Crusaders of old_ . . ."

The eclairs, so delectable half an hour ago, began to make protest at having been eaten, writhing like eels as the broadcaster went on and on with his catalogue of despair. The British Expeditionary Force had been driven from France by the relentless Nazi tide. There would be no Verdun this time, no Miracle at the Marne. Paris would fall. Soon. And then what was to stop the Nazis from turning their sights across the Channel? Across the Atlantic?

". . . _Winston Churchill, addressing the House of Commons_ . . ."

Jem leaned forward to turn up the volume as the broadcaster began to read the Prime Minister's remarks. What could any man say at such an hour?

Carl missed the beginning of the speech, transfixed by the inconsequential details of the moment, storing them away in memory. The way the rain pounded against the windows, the bright fire of Jemmy's hair in the gloom of the too-dark afternoon, the grim avidity of Jem's attention.

There were moments when things changed, when a bright line divided everything into _before_ and _after_. Sometimes you knew them right away: a deathbed goodbye to Mother, an impulsive kiss, a sudden blinding punch to the side of the head. Other times, they were discernible only in retrospect, when you realized that an ordinary farewell had really been forever, or that a chance-made friend was really the love of your life. Was this the end of everything? Or only a chapter somewhere near the beginning?

". . . _defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone_ . . ."

Years? Could they even last weeks?

". . . _we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air_ . . ."

Were they listening at Camp Borden? Were they crowded around a radio in the officers' mess at this moment, wishing themselves in Spitfires and Hurricanes? Or were they aloft, their ears full of the roar of engines, not pausing in their mission long enough to listen to the news?

". . . _we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender_ . . ."

It was impossible not to be swept up in the rhythm of the words. And yet, the images they conjured, of an England besieged and invaded, were so horrific that Carl could barely breathe. He had seen what British generals were willing to spend in blood and treasure for a yard of ground at Ypres and Courcelette. How much more for Dover and Canterbury?

". . . _and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle_ . . ."

Carl dared a glance at Faith, who had made no sound, but had gone perfectly still. She, who was always in motion, might have been a painting of herself, captured eternally in a posture of heart-stricken fear. Jem, too, _grey and drawn and old_ , met the stirring words with stone. Sam was already on his way, with Wally on his heels; would the war be over before they even arrived? Would they be needed to defend Canadian shores?

". . . _until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old_."

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 12: "In the Days of Langemarck." Langemarck/Langemark is a Belgian town near Ypres/Ieper, about 30 miles inland from Dunkirk.

**I don't think this poem has been published anywhere except in the self-published _Memoirs of World War II: The True Story of a Canadian Fighter Pilot_ by Laurie E. Philpotts. But it is a lovely little poem and I sort of wanted to say thanks to the Philpotts family since I read all about Laurie's time at Camp Borden and all his flight instructors and friends (and what his wings test was like!), so I thought I'd include it here. Gordon Philpotts became an Anglican priest and was rector of St. Paul's in Halifax - really my one regret here is that he did not write a memoir as well because I definitely would have read that, too.

***Air Marshal Billy Bishop's remarks at Camp Borden graduation as reported by John Bassett, Jr., "'We'll Win Again in Air,' Bishop Tells New Pilots," Toronto _Globe and Mail_ , May 24, 1940.

****Quotations from the BBC broadcast of June 4, 1940 and from Winston Churchill's "We Shall Fight on the Beaches" speech to the House of Commons. Available via BBC archives at bbc dot co dot uk slash archives.


	38. Multitudes

**Multitudes**

* * *

June 26-30, 1940

* * *

 _He, who, from zone to zone,_  
 _Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,_  
 _In the long way that I must trace alone,_  
 _Will lead my steps aright._

-William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), "To a Waterfowl"

* * *

It was still morning when Carl tied the _Sweet Flag_ securely to the little wooden float in the shadow of the looming cliffs of Rocher aux Oiseaux. The Bird Rock was still breathtaking, even after dozens of visits: sheer, red cliffs rising suddenly from the sea, teeming with tens of thousands of nesting birds. They swooped and screamed, calling to their mates and warding off threats both real and imagined. The red-roofed lighthouse-keeper's cottage on the top must be the loudest lonely place in the world.

The first time Shirley had flown him past the Bird Rock in the Curtiss, Carl had vowed that any return trips would feature generous gifts for the keeper and his family. He had made good on that promise, bearing offerings for the Jubinvilles every summer: quart jars of fresh strawberries, crocks of new butter, a burlap sack of spinach redolent of deep, rich soil. And, of course, a bottle of cognac. No matter how carefully he packed them with newspaper padding, Carl's rucksack still clanked and rattled as he climbed the steep wooden gangway that rose a hundred feet straight up from the float.

Emerging over the top of the cliffs, Carl was buffeted by the sea winds that could — and had — blown men over the edge to their doom. The Rock was slick with excrement and crowded with milling throngs of kittiwakes and murres and gannets. The acrid, throat-searing stink was incredible. You got used to it, though.

At the cottage door, Mrs. Jubinville folded Carl into her warm bosom, exclaiming over him as loudly as any nesting razor-bill. The children tumbled in from the sitting room, clambering for greetings and the licorice they knew Carl had in his pockets. What a strange life it must be, born in the middle of the vast ocean, your whole world a few hundred yards square, and not even that, when you considered how unpleasant it was to step outside. Carl liked birds, but really, there were limits.

He spent an hour trading news with Mr. Jubinville over strong coffee that masked the taste of the island's tainted water. Mrs. Jubinville puttered in the background, praising _les fraises,_ slapping last week's crumpled newspapers onto the stack on the table as she unwrapped each jar.

NAZIS SURROUNDING PARIS

FRANCE ASKS ENEMY TO NAME PEACE TERMS

BRITISH TO FIGHT ALONE

BRITAIN UNDER HEAVY RAID

PREMIER KING URGES HASTE IN HOME DEFENSE MOVES*

"It is very bad, no?" Mr. Jubinville asked, tapping a blunt finger on the column describing how Hitler had arranged to accept the French surrender in the very same spot in the Compiègne Forest where the 1918 Armistice had been signed. Carl's eye slid ineluctably to the next column: _The names of eight Canadians appeared tonight on the Royal Air Force casualty list containing 284 names . . ._

"Yes," he said. "Very bad."

"When the Nazis come, I will turn off my light," Mr. Jubinville shrugged. "Maybe I will sink a battleship."

Carl gave the joke a wan smile. "We'll all have to do our bit, I suppose."

"I wish them luck with _les oiseaux_. I think they will not like Canada very much."

Carl promised that he would come back topside for a late supper when the sun went down. These were the longest days of the year, and the best for counting nests. Three or four days at anchor should be sufficient to collect the data he needed — three days out of the human world, rocking to sleep in his bunk, watching the timeless sun rise over one watery horizon and set over another. The Bird Rock did have its compensations.

He would start with the herring gulls, whose speckled chicks were already bullying their siblings and squawking for parental attention. After strapping on cleated boots, life preserver, and tool belt — pickaxe, monocular, whistle, rubber-cased notebook — Carl secured one end of his lifeline to his chest harness and the other to the bow of the _Sweet Flag_. He'd lost his footing many times over the years, but only gone into the drink once. It was an experience he did not care to repeat.

Climbing over the spray-slick rocks, Carl made little effort to be quiet. For one thing, the constant screeching of wheeling birds and the chatter of their chicks would absorb any sound he could make. For another, the inhabitants of Rocher aux Oiseaux had no fear of humans. In the days before the 1919 Act that protected them, hunters could just tie up to the Rock and wring the necks of as many birds as they could carry. That was what had happened to the Great Auk, hunted to extinction for its heavenly down a century ago. Now the Rock was supposed to be a sanctuary, though Carl could hardly blame the Jubinvilles if they had the occasional fresh gull egg for their breakfast.

A gust of wind knocked him back a step, but Carl hunkered down and paid out another loop of rope, moving with careful deliberation toward the herring gull colony. Small, shaggy nests peeped from cracks and crevices safely above the water line. Carl couldn't climb to every one, but he could count them well enough, and survey a sample of nests to see whether the breeding pairs were having good success this year.

They were. Most of the nests Carl examined were home to two or three black-and-tan spotted chicks, some of them playing tug-of-war with seaweed or crying for food. A few were solitary, but the Bird Rock was a safe place, far from most predators' reach, and the herring gulls thrived here. Carl tallied them in his notebook, rows of little ticks and abbreviations that would become data when he entered them into his ledgers at home.

Carl was nearly ready to pack it in and return to the _Sweet Flag_ when he spotted one: a superclutch — six unhatched eggs in a nest meant for three.

"Oh, where are you?" he murmured, looking to right and left for the parents.

Carl had first seen superclutches in Nova Scotia while working on his roseate tern thesis. They were rare, but not _very_ rare, these nests with too many eggs that usually didn't hatch. He had developed a theory about them, but had never dared mention it to Professor Michelson. It was difficult to prove, especially in monomorphic birds like roseate terns and herring gulls, where the only way to tell male from female was to catch the individuals and examine them closely. Even physical examination was not always definitive, but if you could get a good look and reliable measurements, you could usually tell.

"Come on," Carl muttered to the absent gulls. "Show yourselves."

The first bird arrived home within five minutes. She settled herself over her eggs, still hopeful that one might produce a chick, even as the neighboring nests showed plainly that hatching season was done.

Carl approached the nest slowly and lifted the bewildered gull off her clutch for examination. He sized her head, body, and bill with the calipers in his tool belt: small, small, small. He would swear on a stack of Bibles that she was female.

Normally, Carl would return a bird to her nest as soon as possible, but he wanted to meet her mate. Reaching into a pouch on his tool belt, Carl drew out a small aluminum ring stamped with an identification number. He clamped it securely around the gull's leg, then tucked the soft, trembling creature under his arm and whispered promises that he'd let her get back to her eggs as soon as . . .

"There you are," Carl grinned as another gull settled onto the same nest. It wasn't impossible for it to be male — both herring gull parents incubated their eggs, though the females did by far the greater share of the work. Carl set the first bird down on the rock beside him. She flapped her wings in confusion, but did not alarm her partner. It was the work of a moment for Carl to pluck the sitting bird from the nest and measure her. Definitely her.

"Well, hello, ladies," he clucked as he banded the second bird. "Sorry about the jewelry. It's quite light, though."

Carl set the gull back on her nest. She ruffled her feathers and cawed, calling her mate to join her.

"There's not much of a chance we'll ever meet again," Carl said, penciling their tag numbers onto a page at the back of his notebook. "But if we do, I'd like take note of your future domestic arrangements."

The birds merely looked at him, yellow eyes bright and curious.

"Don't worry," Carl assured them. "I'll keep all this out of my official report. Wouldn't want anyone asking too many questions."

Carl returned the notebook to his belt and stood for a minute, regarding the nesting pair. They weren't the first and probably wouldn't be the last. In addition to the roseate terns and herring gulls, Carl had seen female-female pairs of kittiwakes, black-headed gulls, and Canada geese. Lots of Canada geese, in fact. He'd watched male murres mount other males — razor-bills, too — and there was a pair of Great Cormorants on Rocher aux Margaulx that he'd never been able to tag, owing to rough seas, but he'd watched them build an empty nest together year after year. It wasn't the sort of thing he could risk writing an article about. But it was still true.

That night, after breaking bread with the Jubinvilles, Carl sat in the cabin of the _Sweet Flag_ with his lantern, hunting for letter paper and a pencil. There weren't many people with whom he could discuss his observations, and fewer still who might help him find answers. But there was one.

 _26 June 1940_

 _Rocher aux Oiseaux, Québec_

 _Dear Nellie . . ._

* * *

On the morning after Ursula Anderson's funeral, Una found Father Daniel in the rectory vegetable garden, filling yet another wooden crate with glossy green summer squashes. This looked to be the fourth . . . no, the fifth.

"Miss Meredith!" the priest called, sitting back on his haunches amid the broad leaves and wiping his brow with a muddy sleeve. "Just the person I was hoping to see!"

"You have quite a crop of squash," Una observed, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"I do not have a _crop_ of squash," Father Daniel objected. "I have an _excess_ of squash! A _superfluity_ of squash! An _invasion_ of squash!"

Una chuckled behind her hand. "I'm afraid you're right. How many hills did you plant?"

"Twelve."

" _Twelve?!_ "

Father Daniel rose to his feet, brushing dirt from the knees of his coveralls. "Yes, well, I didn't quite realize just how productive they would be. I've never grown them before."

"Oh dear," Una sympathized. "One or two would have been perfectly sufficient. They'll go on growing new squashes, too, from now until September."

Father Daniel grimaced. "I would say I have quite a lot of ratatouille in my future, but I've already managed to kill all the tomato vines, so I suppose not."

Una reached into the nearest crate, fishing out one plump vegetable for inspection. "You did a fine job with these, at least," she commented. "And you've picked them at just the right point. They'll go on growing and growing if you let them."

"Really?" Father Daniel asked, interested. "How big will they get?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Una admitted. "The larger ones are tough and bland, so we always harvest them when they're small like this."

The priest grinned like a little boy, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "In that case, I propose an experiment. I'll go on harvesting eleven of the plants, but I'll leave this one to its own devices and see what happens."

His delight was infectious and Una could not help but mirror it back to him. "Have you never had a garden before, Father?"

Father Daniel's expression quivered ever so slightly, then settled into a more gentle register of pleasure. "I have, but only for one summer."

The wistful tone of this admission hinted at a story, but Una did not press for details. However, Daniel Caldwell was not a man to keep his peace when he had a willing audience.

"I grew up in Toronto," he explained, "and never ate anything that didn't come from a market. Then college and seminary, all in the city. I never had a garden at all until I married Louisa."

Everyone knew that Father Daniel wore a wedding ring, but no more than that. At least, that was as much as Una knew, and she had no notion of prying. But if Father Daniel wished to tell . . .

"We were married at Easter in 1914," he explained. "I was serving as a minor canon at the Cathedral of St. James, but after we were married, we moved to a little house with a tiny garden plot. I didn't know the first thing about it, but Louisa made it bloom. Then the war came and I went off to England . . ."

He trailed off into fraught silence, fidgeting with his ring.

"Many things changed," Una said, trying to sound both casual and neutral, and succeeding at neither.

"It's no secret, really," Father Daniel said quietly. "She died of the flu before I came home."

Una's "I'm sorry" was meant to cover both his bereavement and whatever winding path had brought them from the summer squash harvest to this delicate pass.

"Hardly your fault, Miss Meredith," the priest said, mustering a little smile. Turning back to the blooming hills, the expression broadened until he gave a little chuckle. "She would have had a laugh at this, I can tell you that much. _Enough squash to feed the multitude twice over, Daniel!_ "

"What do you mean to do with them all?" Una asked, grateful to return to the vegetables at hand.

"Ah," he said, a bit of relish returning to his gaze. "That's why I was so glad to see you. Who better to help me disperse such a bounty?"

* * *

"That smells awfully good," Carl called as he pulled off muddy boots in the front hall. "What are you making?"

"Summer squash," came the faint reply from the kitchen, though it hardly explained the smells emanating therefrom.

Carl lingered a moment to greet an ecstatic Muggins with scratchings and nose-kisses, then made for the bathroom. He deposited bird-stained trousers and reeking shirt in the hamper and washed up as best he could before going to the kitchen in undershirt and blue-striped drawers, Muggins at his heels.

Inside, a row of brown loaf-cakes cooling on the sill seemed to be the sort that Una made from squash left too long on the vine. Aunt Martha's largest casserole pan held baked scalloped squash bubbling with cheese, as did several of the cheap pie plates Una used for food she meant to give away. The big enamel basin on the table was brimful of squash slices marinating in vinegar and dill, waiting to be canned.

"I've heard of the loaves and fishes," Carl said, grinning at sight of the abundance on display, "but it would seem we have a miraculous marrow plant on our hands."

"Twelve, actually," Una said, pausing just long enough to kiss his cheek in greeting.

" _Twelve?!_ " Carl exclaimed. "We never planted twelve, did we?"

"There was a mixup at the rectory," Una explained, stirring a pot of what was certainly more squash. "We gave away as much as people would take and now I'm trying to make the rest more appetizing."

"Can I help?" Carl asked, taking up a knife to slice the end off one dense, moist cake.

"You could take a bath," Una said mildly.

"Are you saying I stink?"

"You do."

"Ah, well, you get used to it," Carl said through a mouthful of crumbs.

Una put her hands on her hips and turned a wrinkled nose toward him. "Perhaps _you_ get used to it, but _I_ do not."

Carl laughed. "Well I suppose you'll never get to visit the Jubinvilles then."

"Definitely not," Una agreed.

"Too bad I left before this visitation of squashes," Carl smiled, cutting another slice. "They're wild for anything green out there — I could have taken some off your hands."

"There will be plenty more where this came from. You can take a whole sackful on your next trip."

Mention of travel diverted Carl's attention from the edible. "Do I have mail?" he asked.

Una gestured toward the sitting room, where a spray of unopened letters adorned the telephone table. Two from Kingsport — one from Di and another from the Rev. Anthony Marckworth — but those could wait. Carl found the one he wanted — precise, upright letters spelling out _C. Meredith_ under Camp Borden's postmark — and slit the envelope. There would be time to read carefully later. For now, there should be news here somewhere . . .

. . . _permission to take two weeks of leave in August. Do you still think you'd like to rent a cabin on Lake Huron? It's beautiful country_ . . .

The prickle of wiry fur against his bare shins alerted Carl to Muggins, apparently protesting the truncation of their ordinary letter-reading rituals. Carl crouched, letting her sniff the letter as he scratched her ears.

"What d'ya say, girl? Are you up for a very long train ride?"

* * *

Notes:

*Front-page headlines from the _Charlottetown Guardian_ , June 14-21, 1940. With the fall of France, Canadian Prime Minister Mackenzie King declared that Canada might be the next Nazi objective after Britain, and began home defense mobilization, including compulsory service in home-defense forces for able-bodied men under 45 and tax increases.

It is a bit too early for the "Gay Purge" in Canada, the systematic campaign to investigate, punish, and/or fire federal employees who were suspected of being gay. However, Carl would certainly be vulnerable if he were to keep his civil service job after the war. Even though same-sex sex was decriminalized in Canada in 1969, thousands of LGBTQ Canadians were fired from civil service on the basis of sexual orientation as late as 1996 (members of the military were also discharged). Prime Minister Justin Trudeau issued an official apology on November 28, 2017, and the Canadian government settled a class action lawsuit in April 2018. Recommended viewing: "The Fruit Machine" (2018) documentary by Sarah Fodey.


	39. Something Useful

**Something Useful**

* * *

September 15-18, 1940

* * *

There was a rat in the hangar.

Shirley was in full flight gear, ready to take the last of today's four students up for his wings tests, but he needed to have a word with Sgt. Dixon first. He found the man in the hangar, supervising repairs to a beat-up undercart, and had just called his name when the rat ran over his toes.

The unexpected movement surprised Shirley, but he did not jump. Instead, he let his eyes flutter shut for an instant and sent up the little prayer he always said when he saw a rat: _That he would be safe_.

"Sorry, sir," Sgt. Dixon grumbled, kicking idly at the vanished rodent. "We need a cat around here."

"I've got a terrier at home," Shirley said mildly. "She'd soon put things to rights."

Dixon shook his head. "Don't say that too loud, sir. The boys have been begging for a mascot. Like kids before Christmas."

It wasn't a bad idea. Probably good for morale. Maybe even keep Davenport busy . . .

There had been a time when Shirley had looked askance at Carl's creature companions. You never did know when something would wriggle out of one of his pockets, which was bad enough sitting side-by-side on the shore of the Glen Pond, but was another matter entirely when something skittered over you on tiny paws in the middle of the night.

But that was before Muggins. When Carl said he was planning to bring her to the cottage on Lake Huron for their holiday, Shirley had been genuinely delighted. Certainly, Carl's company had been the main attraction, but there had been nearly as much comfort in the other joyous reunion, the sturdy, wire-furred body wriggling ecstatically in his arms when he dropped his bag at the cottage door. Carl had decreed that they would have no radio, so the only news came in the form of the headlines Shirley glimpsed when he paddled over to the nearest village to replenish their stores of eggs and bread and milk: ENEMY BOMBERS RAID BRITISH CAPITAL. He would be back in the world soon enough. But for a golden, stolen moment, there were lazy afternoon swims and after-supper dishes and walks along the shore with the little dog in the early mornings while Carl slept. Two weeks of seclusion on the margins of the vast lake had hardly been enough. But Shirley had come back to Camp Borden with enough spring in his step that McMullen insisted that he must always take the leave that was due him from now on. No sense in arguing with the CO.

"Was there something you needed, sir?" Dixon asked.

Shirley re-focused his attention on the crew chief. "The new class of cadets arrived this morning," he said. "The instructors will be bringing them around this afternoon in small groups to meet the Harvards. Would you mind giving them an overview of how maintenance works? That was helpful last time."

"Of course, sir," Dixon said, obviously chuffed. "In fact, I think I see the first group coming now."

Shirley followed Dixon's jutting chin and saw Flight Lieutenants Ramsay and Trent each leading a cohort of four trainees toward the hangar. The new cadets fairly bounced along behind their assigned instructors, each more giddy than the last. They entered the hangar in awe, nudging one another as they grinned up at the Harvards in various states of repair.

"Attention!" F/L Ramsay barked when he caught sight of Shirley. The trainees snapped to the order, falling into line in expectant silence.

It took Shirley a moment to gather his wits enough to address them. He wasn't surprised, not really. He had seen the list. Still, he felt caught out, tongue-tied, unprepared. It was only with effort that he forced himself to tear his own attention from the end of the row.

He cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Ramsay. Trent. These are your new students?"

"Yes, sir," Ramsay and Trent replied in unison.

"Good." Shirley approached the small group, beckoning for Dixon to follow him. "I'm Squadron Leader Blythe and this is Sergeant Dixon. Please be advised that Sergeant Dixon is in charge of the Harvards, and you will keep on his good side or you won't get anywhere near one. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," the new pupils chorused.

"Good. Sergeant, if you would be so kind as to give these men a tour of your facilities."

Dixon complied, calling for the group to follow him across the hangar toward a work in progress. The trainees filed past Shirley, only daring brief, appraising glances. All except the last one, the golden-haired cadet who couldn't keep from grinning, nor from whispering as he passed, "I made it, Uncle Shirley!"

*/*/*

That evening, Shirley joined Wing Commander McMullen in the little alcove where they often took their supper, away from the long tables where the junior officers traded tales of their students' latest antics. There were more flight instructors than ever, enough that Camp Borden would soon be graduating a new class every three weeks instead of every three months. What's more, the new Service Flying Training Schools near Ottawa, Calgary, and Saskatoon were finally — _finally_ — open and on track to graduate their first classes before the end of the year. Things were starting to come together at last.

Not a moment too soon, either. The Luftwaffe had been bombing RAF installations in England since July, trying to blast Fighter Command off the map. That was bad enough, but it was only a prelude to the attacks of September. Beginning on September 7, German bombers had pounded London night after night, sending Londoners skittering into Underground stations and basement shelters for protection. The newpapers, coy with casualty figures, were much happier to trumpet German losses in the headlines: _Hitler Loses 141 Planes in 'All-Out' Attack_.* God, how many had there been to begin with?

"New class settling in alright?" McMullen asked, cutting into his steak.

Shirley unfolded his napkin and spread it over his lap. "Yes, sir. They seem to be a promising group."

"Good. Under the new training schedule, we'll have them ready to ship out by the end of the year."

Shirley had not yet touched his food. "Sir . . . in the interest of full disclosure . . ."

McMullen squinted at him shrewdly. "What is it, Blythe?"

"Nothing, sir. It's only that one of the new cadets is my nephew. Gilbert Ford. My sister's son. I wanted to let you know just in case . . . well, I didn't want anyone to think I was going easy on him."

Shirley had not expected McMullen's bark of laughter. "You? Go easy on someone? I'll believe it when I see it."

"Yes, sir," Shirley said, relaxing enough to reach for a roll.

"How did the wings tests go this afternoon?"

"Fairly well, sir. Three of the four passed without conditions. I couldn't pass Trowbridge, though. Too skittish."

"Did you wash him out?"

"No, sir. He's competent, just not confident. I scheduled him for some extra solo time — maybe without one of us breathing down his neck, he'll loosen up a bit. I can re-test him at the end of the rotation."

"Good, Blythe, very good," McMullen said, dropping pats of butter onto his baked potato. "We need every single pilot we can possibly get. Even if Trowbridge doesn't make the grade, we'll find something useful for him to do, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Speaking of being useful, I had a call with Commodore Breadner this morning."**

Shirley's ears perked up. The Chief of the Air Staff was a busy man, and his attention heralded momentous things.

"It seems that the third round of SFTSes will be ready to open by the end of the year," McMullen chawed. "Two more here in Ontario and one out in Alberta. He wanted to know whether I any thoughts regarding command."

Shirley raised an eyebrow. "Are you leaving us, sir?"

"Hardly, Blythe, hardly. And enough with the _sir_. Do you want one?"

"One what?" Shirley asked, swallowing the reflexive _sir_ that nearly escaped.

McMullen coughed around a mouthful of potato. "A command, of course! Dunnville, maybe? They'll be doing bomber training on Ansons at Brantford, but Dunnville will have be fighter training in Harvards and some of the new Yales and Nomads. What d'ya say?"

Shirley said nothing. His own command? What would that even mean?

"I'm flattered that you'd consider me . . ." he said, stalling.

"Flattery's got nothing to do with it," McMullen huffed. "It's all hands on deck, Blythe, and I'd trust you with an SFTS, no question."

Shirley rolled his glass in his hand, thinking.

"They'd make you a Wing Commander," McMullen wheedled. "It's not just new sleeve stripes — it comes with a pay bump: a third more than you're making now."

Shirley snorted. "With all due respect, sir, it would take another war bond drive to pay me enough to do as much paperwork as you do."

McMullen laughed, his fork chiming against the plate. "Can't argue with that, Blythe, can't argue with that. Does that mean you aren't interested?"

Was he? Shirley quickly totted up the pros and cons. Pro: rank, respect, responsibility. And, apparently, remuneration. Con: thankless hours of dull office-work, adjudicating personnel disputes, constant contact with the high command . . .

"When was the last time you were in a cockpit?" Shirley asked.

McMullen swished his mustache back and forth. "April, maybe? No — March."

"I'm not interested," Shirley said.

"Sure?"

"Very sure."

"Well, I can't say I'm not glad to hear it," McMullen smiled. "I'd hate to lose you. Though it does put me in a bit of a spot with the brass. They need to staff the new schools as soon as possible."

"If you're looking for recommendations, Flight Lieutenant Ramsay could do my job," Shirley said, returning to his carrots. "Not quite ready for yours, I don't think, but he's capable of taking on more responsibility."

"I quite agree. Anyone else? There'll be another half dozen SFTSes by this time next year — Yorkton, Fort McLeod, Aylmer, Summerside . . ."

Shirley froze mid-chew. "Summerside?"

"Yes. Already under construction. No. 9 SFTS, Summerside, Prince Edward Island. You're from there, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Does that change things?"

To be on the Island, a short train ride away, riding a desk . . . yes, well, that did change the calculations a bit, didn't it?

"It might."

"I see," McMullen said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I always suspected you'd left a trail of broken hearts behind you."

"Hardly, sir."

"Jesus, Blythe, someday you're going to call me _Robert_ and we'll both die of shock."

A soft chuckle bubbled up through Shirley's chest. "I'd invite you to call me Shirley, but really, I'd prefer if you didn't."

McMullen cackled, nearly spilling his wine. "God, man, what were your parents thinking?"

"It's my mother's maiden name," Shirley shrugged. "It wasn't quite so bad before Shirley Temple."

This drew yet another laugh from McMullen, prompting some of the junior officers to elbow one another and look over toward the alcove with interest. Shirley smiled himself. It felt odd to share anything personal, but not unpleasant. Almost like having a friend.

* * *

"Oh, look at this one, Mother Blythe!" Faith exclaimed, holding up an intricately pin-tucked dress in robin's-egg blue. "Don't you remember Ceci in this at Bruce's wedding?

"Of course," Mrs. Blythe smiled, brushing the gossamer hem with her fingertips. "She told me that it was just exactly the same color as the pixies that live between the Tree Lovers."

Una, Faith, and Mrs. Blythe sat in the living room at Ingleside, surrounded by colorful drifts of children's clothing that Faith and her girls had carried down from the garret. Most had belonged to Faith and Jem's children, but there were a few that dated back an additional generation. Una recognized several dresses that had once been Rilla's, the long skirts that had once signaled maturity now hopelessly out of fashion.

Perhaps these old things could be made over to meet the new need. With attacks on Britain intensifying, the Children's Overseas Reception Board had announced that it would evacuate thousands upon thousands of child refugees between the ages of five and fifteen to the Commonwealth countries. Parents had registered over 200,000 children for the plan, and the call had gone out to Canadians to open their arms and their homes. Over a thousand children had already arrived, along with many others evacuated privately at their families' own expense.

Among the new arrivals were five nieces and nephews of Mrs. Jim Anderson of the harbour shore. Fanny Anderson had left six younger siblings in England when she came to Canada at the end of the last war, all of whom were desperate to keep their own children safe from bombardment and invasion, even if it meant sending them across the treacherous Atlantic alone. Una had heard, _sotto voce_ from Faith, that Fanny's family never could have afforded private evacuation, but Rilla Ford could, and had wasted no time wiring money for the children's passage. They had arrived shivering and destitute in a new country to live with an aunt they had never met, perhaps forever.

Their arrival had thrown Ingleside and the House of Dreams into a flurry of activity that kept everyone busy, even if it did not quite obscure the anniversary on the calendar. Una had contributed a crate of pear preserves and summer-squash pickles, and had arrived at Ingleside today ready to help Faith and Mrs. Blythe assemble enough warm, serviceable clothing to see the children through their first Canadian winter. Sam's old sweaters, the trousers Wally had worn on his first day of school, Jemmy's woolly tam, Ceci's flannel nightgown.

"I remember this coat," Faith smiled, unfolding a green wool overcoat made for a boy of eight or nine. "Both of my boys wore this, but I think yours wore it first, Mother Blythe."

Mrs. Blythe reached out her hand for the garment, opening it to run her fingers over the yellow plaid flannel of the lining. "Not all of them," she said with a slight smile. "Susan and I made this for Shirley. See, this is her herringbone stitch on the hems."

Una looked where she indicated, smiling at the neat, precise stitches that were what had passed for embellishment with Susan Baker. "I think I remember Shirley in this," she said. "He must have worn it the first few winters we lived in the Glen."

"Yes," Mrs. Blythe said, closing the coat and buttoning it in her lap. "The boys generally passed coats down from one to the next, but there was a year when Shirley shot up and was nearly as tall as Walter. He'd outgrown his old coat, but Walter was still using the next one, so Susan and I made this one for him."

Faith grinned. "Well, that explains why it survived long enough to make it to Sam. There weren't many things that survived all three of your boys in good enough shape to be passed on."

"No," Mrs. Blythe agreed. "Though see here? There's an old patch on the shoulder. We were in Avonlea when Marilla died, staying at Green Gables with the Keiths. The day after the funeral, we were all done in and almost everyone slept late, but Shirley was never one for sleeping in. He remembered that the cow needed to be milked and tried to do it himself. I don't know that he'd ever milked a cow before — he didn't always go to Avonlea with the others — but he tried. Somehow, he caught his coat on a nail in the barn and tore it. He came back up to the kitchen with only a very little bit of milk in the pail and wouldn't let me see to his coat until I came down to the barn to show him how to do the thing properly."

"It's still in very good condition," Una said gently, calling Mrs. Blythe back to the present.

"A certifiable miracle," Faith averred. "Wally must have outgrown it too quickly to inflict much damage."

Mrs. Blythe did not answer, tightening her grip on the little coat.

"Mother Blythe?"

"I was only thinking . . . new clothes can be so important, can't they? When I came to Green Gables in my ugly little wincey dress . . . I'd never had anything new. Marilla made me good, sturdy dresses for school, and that helped, but I knew I was loved when Matthew gave me the puffed sleeves I'd always wanted . . ."

Faith darted a nervous glance at Una. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to include Mrs. Blythe in this task. She was already apt to take morbid spells, even without facing the little ghosts that lingered in children's outgrown clothes.

"I remember when Mary Vance went to live with Miss Cornelia," Una offered. "She came down to Rainbow Valley one day in a new velvet cap and navy blue coat with a squirrel muff. I was very glad for her, of course, because she had never had anything new either, but I'm afraid I was awfully jealous of that muff."***

Faith laughed. "Jealous? Una! I never would have guessed it!"

Una blushed under Mrs. Blythe's sympathetic gaze. "I don't suppose I ever said anything about it. You never seemed to care about being shabby, Faith, as long as you were comfortable."

"No," Faith agreed, grinning. "Do you remember the affair of the striped stockings? I've never been sorry I went to church bare-legged rather than wearing those awful, scratchy things!"

Mrs. Blythe had come back to herself a little and granted Faith a little chuckle. "Oh, dear! I'm afraid even I was a bit shocked by that particular scrape! How you did remind me of myself at that age, Faith. I remember that Susan spent the rest of the day muttering because it was Sunday and she couldn't start knitting for you straight away. But she had a stocking _set up before anyone else was out of bed at Ingleside the next morning_."****

"We must make up some nice new stockings for the children," Una said. "I'm sure Mrs. Anderson hasn't time to knit any."

"Yes," Mrs. Blythe agreed through a watery smile. "I suppose we ought to send this coat as well."

She moved to add it to the pile of donations, but hesitated, clinging to the green wool.

"You don't have to give it," Una said quietly. "We can make another."

The gray-green eyes were soft, but they held Una's gaze steadily. "Do you think Shirley would tell me to keep it or to give it away?"

Una went shy, as if she had been called out before the class. She was not sure of the right answer, so fell back on the truth.

"I think . . . I think that Shirley would do what had to be done. He'd want it to be useful."

Mrs. Blythe nodded, a wry little smile twisting her lips. "Yes, I believe you're right. Forgive me, we mothers can be a mite sentimental."

She pressed the coat onto the pile, letting her fingers linger for the space of a single heartbeat.

"Nan wrote that she and Jerry have volunteered to take in a child or a group of siblings," Faith said. "Their house is big enough and the girls have all said they don't mind sharing rooms if need be. I suppose we could do the same. What do you think, Mother Blythe?"

Mrs. Blythe forced a smile. "They won't be the first war babies in this house. I suppose I wasn't very much help last time, but if Susan can be a heroine, so can I."

"That's very good of you," Una said, eyes shining. "I'd be happy to help with their sewing."

In the end, it proved an unnecessary offer. The next morning's _Guardian_ announced the sinking of the refugee ship _City of Benares_ on its way to Québec, with the loss of 77 of the 90 children aboard. The whole scheme of evacuating British children overseas was halted for fear of more U-boat attacks. Una spent the evening knitting stockings out of the very finest yarn she could find, adding decorative little scalloped stitches to the cuffs and trying hard to think only of Mrs. Anderson's family and their warm, safe, well-beloved toes.

* * *

Notes:

*Toronto _Globe and Mail_ , 9 Sept. 1940. Sadly, I don't think Shirley has _The Charlottetown Guardian_ delivered to Camp Borden, so I've had to expand my reading.

**Air Chief Marshal Lloyd Samuel Breadner served as RCAF Chief of Air Staff from 1940-1943.

*** _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 18: Mary Brings Evil Tidings

**** _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 25: Another Scandal and Another Explanation and Chapter 26: Miss Cornelia Gets a New Point of View

Congrats to LGBTQIA people in India for overturning British colonial anti-gay laws this week!


	40. Professional Opinions

**Professional Opinions**

* * *

November 1940

* * *

 _I am the teacher of athletes,  
_ _He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own,  
_ _He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.  
_ _. . . I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?  
_ _I follow you whoever you are from the present hour;  
_ _My words itch at your ears till you understand them._

-Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself" (47)

* * *

Carl hurried across King's Square in Charlottetown, eager to get out of the November wind that sliced off the water and directly through his tweed jacket. He'd come into Town at the invitation of the biology department at Prince of Wales College to deliver a lecture on the ecology of the Maritimes. Strange how academic life went on, even in these times. There had been a greater proportion of women in the hall than on previous occasions, but other than that, you might never have known that there was a war on.

Carl enjoyed lecturing, often running over his time if he did not stick strictly to his notes. Over the years, Professor Michelson at Redmond had often asked Carl to take a turn at the lectern when he was in Kingsport for the winter, and had written recently to say that the ornithology class had missed Carl last year and wouldn't he please consider visiting this coming spring? Di had been most insistent as well, protesting that she had missed him terribly, and Muggins, too. No doubt she had, with Sylvia gone to England and Aster House so quiet. Perhaps he could manage a short visit this year.

King's Square was not large, and it took Carl mere minutes to cross the blustery park and mount the steps of a blue-gabled Victorian nestled under a magnificent oak. It was a whimsical house, adorned with wooden lace and complicated porch-rails intricately painted in unexpected colors. Carl straightened his bow tie and knocked, grinning when Jerry answered the door.

"Welcome!" Jerry said, wrapping Carl in a back-slapping hug before taking his briefcase and ushering him into the hall. "It's good to see you! How was the lecture?"

"Fine," Carl smiled. "A very earnest undergraduate had a lot of questions about eel grass."

Jerry snorted, shaking his head over this absurdity, but looking very pleased all the same. Jerry often looked pleased. And why shouldn't he? He had given up his private practice last year to accept an appointment as a trial judge on the Provincial Court, and was settled into a comfortable middle-age that showed in both his smile and his waistline. He and Nan were active in church and civic affairs, he sitting on the board of the YMCA, she helming the library committee with daunting zeal. Their three girls had the run of Charlottetown Ladies' Academy and were already terrifying the few spellbound swains who mustered enough courage to speak to Judge Meredith's daughters.

The patter of many feet on the stairs announced the girls' arrival and Carl was soon engulfed in a flurry of colorful, silken embraces. He was quite sure of Portia, who was nearly 15 and still in the phase of arms-and-legs that had once inspired Shirley and Jem to call Rilla "Spider." As to which of the older girls was Beatrice and which was Cordelia . . .

"Dellie, darling, will you go fetch Mum?" Jerry prompted, sending the pink one swirling off into the recesses of the house and clarifying things for Carl.

Bea and Portia led Carl to the plush sofa in the parlor, peppering him with questions about his trip, his lecture, the welfare of the Glen cousins, and a dozen other topics, all rendered fresh and engaging by their youthful enthusiasm and flashing dark eyes. Carl did his best to answer, though he was somewhat distracted by a large and recent oil portrait of the Honorable Gerald Meredith, resplendent in his judicial robes and framed in gold filigree on the wall above the mantel. It was easier to disguise his chortling as a response to his nieces' banter than to tamp it down.

"Carl!" Nan said, heels clicking against the polished floor as she came to embrace him. "We're so glad you could join us. How is everyone in the Glen?"

"All well. Looking forward to seeing you all at Christmas."

"Any news from the boys?" Jerry asked, accepting a tea cup from Cordelia.

Carl thanked Portia for tea and turned his body away from the portrait so that he could concentrate on what people were saying. "Faith and Jem had a letter from Sam. The Royal Regiment is on the move, though of course he can't say where to."

Nan sighed. "I had hoped they might stay in Iceland a bit longer."

"I suppose they only need a small infantry garrison there. It's really a job for the Navy."

"Any word from Wally?" Jerry asked, his avid interest making Carl wonder, not for the first time, how things stood between Jem and Jerry these days, when Jerry had all his girls safe beside him while Jem's sons were moving ever closer to the maelstrom.

"He's just been posted to a little coastal patrol vessel," Carl said. "I gather he'd rather be escorting convoys across the Atlantic, but guarding Kingsport Harbour against U-boats is important work. And a bit of a relief at Ingleside, I'd say."

Nan refreshed their cups. "Di said he was in good spirits last time she saw him. He had a bit of liberty from time to time when he was training and came to Aster House for a proper feeding-up."

The image of Wally getting a pass and using it to visit his aunt made Carl grin. Still a boy after all, craving home comforts over the usual debauchery of shore leave. Ah well, maybe he had vowed to Zoe Maylock ne'er to touch liquor.

"I had a letter from Gil last week," Bea offered. "He says Camp Borden is keen and he has a laugh seeing how scared everyone is of Uncle Shirley."

Carl sputtered into his tea, but recovered enough not to spill. "Oh?" he said mildly. "Is Gil enjoying his training?"

"Heaps," Bea grinned. "He says they got a falcon for a mascot, but she's only half-trained and she just torments the life out of the poor batman who has to take care of her."

Carl had never met Aircraftman Davenport, but he felt genuine sympathy for the man. A falcon that didn't want to be kept was a fearsome thing, no doubt requiring endless attention and trouble. He'd have to send some suggestions for keeping her happy, though he doubted whether Shirley would pass them along. And where in thunder had he gotten a falcon anyway?

They chatted pleasantly for a while, the girls telling Carl of their classes and dances and the concert the Academy was organizing for the relief of displaced children in Britain. Bea was to give a dramatic recitation and Cordelia would sing, while Portia had a most scrumptious part in one of the dialogues.

After a time, Nan excused herself to look in on supper and called the girls to assist her, leaving Carl and Jerry alone. Carl sipped his tea, catching sight of the portrait again as he tipped his cup and not bothering to stifle a laugh.

"What's funny?" Jerry asked, bemused.

Carl merely inclined his head toward Jerry's double on the wall, eliciting a furious blush from his brother.

"Nan's idea," Jerry muttered.

"It's very . . . impressive."

"Yes, well, I'm supposed to project authority, aren't I?" Jerry grumbled. "Robes, bench, _Your Honour_ — all of that is so people will respect the majesty of the law."

Carl nodded, grinning. "It's too bad you don't get to wear a wig. Very majestic."

"You laugh," Jerry muttered, "but have you ever seen the robes the Supreme Court justices have to wear? We had to take an appeal to Ottawa a few years back and I nearly laughed in the courtroom. Red robes with white ermine collars — they look like Santa Clauses!"

Carl did laugh. "Too bad we didn't know that back in the Good Conduct Club days. We could have borrowed Dr. Blythe's suit and dressed you up while you dispensed your majestic justice from Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone."

Jerry's smile turned wistful. "You know," he said slowly, "I suppose I never apologized to you about all that."

"About the Good Conduct Club?" Carl was surprised. He had long ago made peace with his bringing-up, but had not realized that Jerry harbored any regrets.

"We . . . I . . ." Jerry faltered. "I was too hard on you."

Carl shrugged uncomfortably. "You were a kid yourself. I don't blame you for any of that."

"You almost died, Carl."

What was all this about? It was all such a long time ago; the physical hurts had healed and the sting had gone out of the others. Carl scrutinized his brother's face, trying to puzzle out the reason for this unlooked-for repentance.

"You don't owe me an apology, Jerry," he said, not much comforted when Jerry looked down at his feet.

After a long moment, Jerry said, "I heard a case this fall. A . . . um . . . well . . . you don't happen to know what Section 206 of the Criminal Code is, do you?"

Carl's blood drained away in frigid eddies and it was a moment before he could answer. "Yes."

Jerry did not look up, and Carl had to strain to hear his next words. "I . . . well, I just . . . I realized I owed you an apology is all. For sitting in judgment. I should have done a better job looking out for you all along."

Carl wasn't quite sure what to say to that. It was an old fear — looking up at Jerry from the dock, Jerry pronouncing a sentence and then turning away — but not one that occupied much space in his thoughts. At least not now, when there were so many more pressing things to worry over.

"What happened to your Section 206 case?" Carl asked faintly.

Jerry raised his head, and Carl was surprised to see tears in his eyes. Even more surprised when he said, "Dismissed."

"Really?"

"Lack of evidence. I . . . I told the prosecutor not to waste my time with any of that nonsense anymore."

Carl wasn't sure what to say to that either. Instead, he pulled Jerry into a hug. There was a _thank you_ in there somewhere, but it was mostly covered over by Jerry's _I'm sorrys_.

When Nan came to call them to the table, she found the Meredith brothers slouched side-by-side on the sofa, tear-tracked faces smiling broadly as they took pot-shots at the portrait, giggling like little boys.

* * *

The North American Harvard gleaming on the runway was the same chrome yellow as their little Piper Cub at home. The damn things never failed to make Shirley's heart skip when he caught them out of the corner of his eye, thinking for a moment that Muggins might spring out at him. But this wasn't home. Where the Cub was snub-nosed and lightly framed, with a cockpit open to the Gulf breeze, the Harvard was square and solid, both seats encased in a canopy of armored glass. It was a warplane and no mistake.

Shirley pulled the strap of his helmet tight and adjusted his goggles. He had supervised hundreds of wings tests by now. He still did a bit of instruction in tactical and night flying, but the junior officers handled most of the day-to-day teaching. Flight Lieutenants Ramsay and Trent and all the rest put the pilot candidates through their paces — solo flight, formations, cross-country— before sending them up one by one to face Squadron Leader Blythe. If a candidate passed the practical exam that Shirley set, he got his wings.

That wasn't the end of an airman's training, not by a long shot. But men who earned Shirley Blythe's stamp of approval were sent on to England and into the cockpits of Spitfires and Hurricanes. Some of them were even now battling the Luftwaffe in the skies over London, holding back the promised invasion one night at a time.

Shirley had given the wings test many times, but it had never felt like this before.

"Ready, Uncle Shirley?"

There was no mistaking Gil Ford, not even kitted out in full flight gear that obscured his golden hair and cloaked the vestiges of boyish awkwardness in a man's garb. The grin said plainly that he had been waiting for this day for a long time. He had sent plaintive, over-confident letters from the Elementary Flight Training School in Saskatchewan over the summer: _I know all this already. Geez, Uncle Shirley you could fly loops around these old grannies_. Shirley had written back sound advice: _Don't get cocky. Listen to those tough old bush pilots. They'll teach you heaps of things you'll never learn in school_.

Shirley had tried to keep his distance once Gil arrived at Camp Borden. Couldn't have anyone complaining of favoritism, even though anyone who watched Gil fly for five minutes knew he was top of the class. Untouchable.

But there was no sense letting Gil grow a big head. Let the other cadets earn their wings by meeting the ordinary RCAF rubric. Shirley wanted Gil home alive, and if he couldn't get himself out of a few minor scrapes, Shirley wouldn't pass him.

"You think you're ready, Ford?" Shirley asked in an official, rather than avuncular tone.

"Yes, sir!" Gil saluted.

"Let's see it then."

The ground crew hurried to assist them into the Harvard already positioned for takeoff, doing last checks of landing gear and canopy. Gil slid into the harness in the front seat and began to check his instruments. Shirley took the instructor's seat and strapped in, checking and double-checking and flicking on the intercom.

"Great day for flying!" Gil said. "Just look at that sky!"

Shirley scowled. "Pull down your instrument hood, Ford."

"What?" Gil half-turned in his seat.

"The hood. Cover your canopy."

There was a beat of silence. "But . . . I won't be able to see what's in front of me if the hood is down."

"No visual cues. Take off by instruments."

Gil complied, pulling the opaque cover over the windshield so that he could see nothing but the instrument panel before him. No more chatter. Good. Let him focus.

The next time Gil spoke, it was not to an uncle, but to a superior officer. "Ready on your signal, sir."

"You may proceed, Ford."

The Harvard's engine roared to life. Between the white noise and the instrument hood, there may as well have been no world beyond the bird's yellow skin. Gil rolled his shoulders back and just for a moment, Shirley saw him as he had been at not-quite-twelve, taking off in the old homebuilt for the first time. They had had the wind in their hair then, and no intercom, only the boy's shrieking joy under a limitless sky. No way to go back, though, only forward.

Gil opened the throttle and they were off, gathering speed, tilting skyward, leaving the ground behind. Shirley watched the directional gyro carefully; Gil kept them on a perfectly straight heading the whole time, clearing the runway flawlessly.

"You can remove the hood now, Ford," Shirley said over the intercom.

Gil obeyed. "What would you like to see first, sir?"

Shirley did not answer. Instead, he reached down and cut the throttle dead. Immediately, the Harvard's engine went still, tachometer collapsing toward zero rpms.

"FUCK!" Gil hollered, though Shirley was pleased to note that he must be leaning on the control column at the same time, as they were maintaining flying speed. "I think we lost the engine!"

"Yep," Shirley replied, noting that Gil was positioning them for an emergency landing in a promising meadow rather than among the treacherous pines. That was a good choice: there was a decent chance they'd survive a crash there, whereas the trees were a death sentence. Gil had the Harvard aimed along exactly the path Shirley would have chosen himself if he had lost his only engine and was going down.

"Good show," Shirley said, opening the throttle again once Gil had committed to the right answer. "Take 'er up."

"You did that _on purpose_?" Gil's voice cracked on the last word, making him sound half a child in his distress.

"Take 'er up, Ford."

Gil obeyed, though the intercom crackled with dim mutterings.

Shirley let him gain altitude for a minute or two, then closed the throttle again.

"JESUS CHRIST!" Gil yelled from the front cockpit.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Shirley asked, speaking calmly as the plane began to descend.

"I'm gonna die in a goddamn fireball, you crazy son of a bitch!"

"That's no way to talk about your grandmother. Fix it."

Gil responded with a barrage of colorful invective, but he brought the Harvard around in a series of textbook-perfect S turns, lining up for a forced landing in a broad, flat field. Good. They'd stand a decent chance of surviving that as well.

"Alright, go back up," Shirley said, opening the throttle again.

Over the next hour, Shirley ran Gil and the Harvard through the wringer, putting the craft through a dizzying barrage of nose spirals, slow rolls, steep slips, and unpredictable failures.

"Pay attention to that airspeed," Shirley barked in the middle of a spin.

Gil must have listened because they were both still alive when Shirley gave the go-ahead to turn for home.

"I don't even know where we are," Gil groaned.

"Navigate, Ford." Was it wrong to be merciless? He'd face worse over there. He'd get lost at night, in flak, with the Luftwaffe breathing down his rudder, and he'd have to get home. He _had_ to come home.

The sun was setting in orange splendor over Lake Huron, a familiar sight, and a comfort. Gil got his bearings and plotted a course that brought them to Camp Borden within twenty minutes. Shirley told him to put the Harvard down and sincerely considered letting him do so without trouble. But what good would that do?

"By instruments," he said. "Settle into your approach and then pull the hood down again."

"By instruments?" Gil sounded on the point of tears.

"Nice and gentle, Gil," Shirley said, a bit of the uncle showing through. "You can do it."

Indeed, he could. They landed safely. Smoothly even.

The moment the Harvard came to a complete stop, Gil flung off his harness and exploded out of the canopy, tearing the flight helmet and goggles from his head. Shirley followed, only to have Gil fling the helmet at him full-force. If he hadn't caught it, he would have gotten a nasty bruise.

"What the HELL was all that?" Gil shouted, gray eyes murderous in a splotched and streaky face.

"Your wings test."

Gil scoffed, incredulous. "I watched Pownall's wings test. And Morrison's. You didn't put either of them through half that shit!"

"No," Shirley agreed simply.

"So you're what? Hazing me? Trying to show you don't play favorites?" Gil was wild-eyed, raging and red-faced, pacing a tight arc, his volume well beyond the realm of appropriate conduct in the presence of a superior officer.

Shirley stood immovable, watching him. No signs of dizziness. Hell, the kid didn't even puke, which was more than Shirley would be able to say for himself once all this was over.

A loud throat clearing just behind Shirley's ear made him turn, then snap to attention.

"Is there a problem here, Blythe?"

"No, sir," Shirley said, saluting Wing Commander McMullen.

McMullen returned the salute, then stepped past Shirley to the place where Leading Aircraftman Gilbert O. Ford stood petrified in textbook posture.

"And, you, Ford," McMullen inquired. "Any problems I should know about?"

"No, sir."

"Excellent, Ford, excellent," McMullen said, turning back to Shirley with a congenial smile. "What say, Blythe? Has Ford here passed his wings test?"

Shirley addressed McMullen, but spoke to Gil. "Full marks, sir. The best I've seen yet."

* * *

Notes:

If you have any interest in the North American Harvards used by the RCAF, there's a nice little introduction to them on the show _Plane Resurrection_ (available on Netflix in the US). Season one, episode five is about the restoration of a Harvard. It includes an interview with RAF pilot James Gibbons, who talks about his experience at a Canadian SFTS (and shows his "Honour Diploma" - the certificate he received for graduating first in his class).

Hello, KatherineWithAC! Thanks so much for saying hi. That was such a nice comment — you really made my day. Congratulations and best of luck to you! If you ever want to sign in and PM me, please feel free.


	41. Exchanges of Trust (Reprise)

Content warning: discussion of early pregnancy loss, brief mention of domestic violence

* * *

 **Exchanges of Trust (Reprise)**

* * *

November 1940

* * *

 _15 November 1940_

 _Camp Borden, Ontario_

 _Dear Kit,_

 _I had quite a day yesterday — eight wings tests, and one of them Gil's. I threw everything I had at him and a few more things besides and he sailed through it all with flying colors. Cursed me out a bit, but I suppose I deserved that. You should have seen him. McMullen did see him — the last bit anyway — and was as impressed as I was. I'm glad he did, because I wanted to recommend Gil for special distinction, but I felt that I couldn't on account of my bias. But McMullen spared me the trouble and Gil will graduate top of the class as long as he maintains his marks in classroom instruction._

 _I'm glad to hear that your lecture went well. Even gladder to hear about Jerry. Who would have thought? I suppose that means I'll have to visit that portrait someday, though don't ask me not to laugh at it._

 _I have some leave coming to me around Christmas. What do you think? Aster House? Toronto? Lake Huron was ideal, but not in the sort of cold we've been having around here. Our new class of cadets are having some difficulty adjusting — they're Australians and they thought Ramsay was joking when he told them to expect sub-zero temperatures by New Year's._

 _Gil's class will graduate next month and then he'll be off, too. The new pilots generally get three weeks' leave after their wings parade, but he'll be off to Blighty with the rest after the New Year. Still training, though. I wish we had a couple of Spitfires here, but we don't, and the boys need to do some training on the real deal over there._

 _Gil really is something to watch in action, I tell you. He was mad as hell after that wings test, but he came through it all just perfectly. His pals got by as well, and I was very glad I didn't have to flunk any of them. Some of the groups still have a wash-out or two at this stage, but I guess Gil's group has Ramsay and Trent, who are two of our best instructors. Plus they have Gil's wake to chase after, so they all passed._

 _That's enough shop talk, I suppose. I'd send apologies, but I suspect you won't mind getting a two-page letter for once, no matter what's in it. How is Una getting along? She wrote last week that planning the church festival is taking up all her time, but she didn't sound particularly sorry about it. There was a gentle nudge in there somewhere about writing to my mother more often, so please tell her that I have sent my parents an account of Gil's success here, which they should enjoy._

 _Say hello to Mugsy for me. That's a point in favor of Kingsport — shorter train ride and you wouldn't be able to bring her to the King Eddy. What say? Should I write to Di?_

 _Yours Truly,_

 _Shirley_

 _P.S. The falcon's name is Nomad (a type of advanced training airplane we have here). Thank you for suggesting the hood to keep her calm. Davenport is very grateful, even if he doesn't know to whom. I decline to tell you where and how I got her. Can't you just believe that I found her shivering on the doorstep one morning like old Cock Robin? S.J.B._

* * *

The splendor of blazing maples and golden elms had burned down to dull browns and ashy grays by November. No matter; the lawn of St. Elizabeth's teemed with color and commotion as the whole congregation celebrated their patron's feast day in company with half their neighbors, Catholic, Presbyterian, and otherwise. Folding tables under the barren branches offered maple-glazed donuts, spiced cider, and sandwiches of every variety, with all proceeds split between the St. Elizabeth's Sunday School and the Red Cross. There were games and contests, a potato-sack race and a sand pit for pitching quoits. Over by the rectory garage, the Lowbridge Boy Scouts had set up a large crate for collecting scrap tinfoil in hopes of making their goal of 100 pounds by Christmas. Children dodged among the throng as their parents perused tables selling colorful mittens and crocheted tams, or sat on the lawn near the stage, listening to the Maylock sisters sing "It's Only a Paper Moon."

Una Meredith stood behind the cookie table with Cecilia Blythe, selling monkey-faces and orange shortbread for a penny and giving jars of summer squash pickles to anyone who could be convinced to take them. Carl had driven them over in Shirley's truck on the condition that the pickle crates were on a one-way trip to Lowbridge.

"Don't you like squash pickles, Uncle Carl?" Ceci had asked.

"I did once," he conceded, "but if there are any left after today, I'll have to _bury them at dead of night in the garden_."*

Una pursed her lips, but really, after six months of the stuff, she could hardly disagree.

Once he had helped them set up tables and carry crates, Carl had wandered off toward the music, whistling as he went. Una looked after him, wondering what on earth could have been in this morning's letter that had him floating along as happy as he was. Whatever it was had him pressing his hand to his breast pocket as he walked.

"Your monkey-faces came out very well," Una said with a gentle smile for Ceci. "Susan would be proud of you."

"I love to read her cookbooks," Ceci admitted. "Did you know that she left notes on most of the recipes? She said gingerbread cheered Dad up when he was a little boy, so I've been making it as often as I can get both sugar and molasses."

"That's kind of you," Una said. "And of Susan, to take such notice."

Ceci nodded, golden-brown curls bobbing emphatically. "Susan knew what everybody liked best. She said that Uncle Shirley loves homemade fudge and that Aunt Rilla should never have a silver-and-gold cake for her birthday because she has a prejudice against them. Did you know that Uncle Walter loved Queen Pudding?"

"Yes," Una said, able, after all these years, to keep the pang out of her expression.

"Wally likes it, too. I wrote that in. Do you think it's alright for me to add my own notes in the book?"

Una wrapped a woolly arm around Ceci's narrow shoulders. "I can't think of anything Susan would like more," she smiled.

"Then you'll have to tell me your favorites as well," Ceci said. "Susan made all sorts of notes for Uncle Carl and how to make certain recipes vegetarian, but I don't remember seeing any for you."

It had been a long time since Una had read a cookbook as hungrily as Ceci did. She resolved that next time her niece came to visit the little gray house, she would take down her own mother's cookbook and pass on some of the recipes that sustained her in her starved childhood.

"Doughnuts are my favorite," Una said with a squeeze.**

*/*/*

Over the course of the afternoon, the congregants of St. Elizabeth's showed hearty approval for the wares on offer, even carrying away the majority of the pickle jars, though whether they wanted them for the squash or for the glass remained a mystery. Una relished the opportunity to chat with Ceci, who had started her freshman year at Lowbridge High that fall and was evidently settling in well, despite several teachers' evident surprise that gentle, careful Cecilia was Walter and Jemima Blythe's little sister.

Una was just wrapping a nickel's-worth of cookies for Mr. Anderson when Amelia Newgate appeared at the table, mouse-brown hair flying out of her pins, face pale and sweaty. Wee Georgie hovered behind her, his brow knit with more concern than Una could bear to see on a ten-year-old's face.

"George, will you help Cecilia with the cookies for a moment?" Una ask-ordered, already stepping around the table to catch Amelia's elbow.

The boy nodded, staring after his mother as Una escorted her away.

Una got Amelia as far as the rectory garden before the latter swayed dangerously, grasping at Una's arm for support.

"Steady now," Una crooned as she helped her to a seat on an overturned crate. "Put your head down. That's right. I'll fetch you some water.

Una turned to go, but Amelia caught at her skirt. "Oh, Una, wait! I'm afraid I need more than that. Can you help me up to the rectory?"

"Of course."

The problem became apparent when they reached the rectory water closet and Amelia shimmied out of blood-soaked knickers. The elasticized fabric of her girdle had protected most of her dress, but there was still a visible stain on the sprigged cotton.

"I'm so sorry," Amelia said. "It came over me all in a rush and I knew I would faint . . ."

"Never mind that, dearest," Una said, stoppering the sink and running the tap. "Mrs. Williams keeps a bag of rags for cleaning under the sink here. Do take them; I'll run over to the mission box and see if I can't find anything for you to wear while we wash out your dress."

As it happened, the charity box was quite full, the regular sorting having been neglected in the run-up to the festival. Una scrounged a passable floral housedress that would be terribly long on Amelia, but would do in a pinch, and augmented it with a paisley shawl that could be deployed to cover any future mishap. She returned to find her friend sniffling into the sink as she rinsed her underclothes.

"There now, Amelia," she said, offering her handkerchief. "Are you feeling any better?"

Amelia blew a loud, restorative blast and hiccuped. "A bit. The cramps are still bad, but I'm not going to faint."

"Let me get you a hot water bottle."

"No, it's alright, Una. I just want to get cleaned up enough to go home."

Una nodded sympathetically and took the girdle to wring out while Amelia worked on the knickers. She refreshed the bloody water twice, rinsing and rinsing.

"Do you . . ." Una hesitated, "do you always bleed so much?"

Amelia wiped her nose and gulped air. "No. I thought . . . well, I'm a week or two late and I thought I might be pregnant again, though it's very foolish. It's ten years since Georgie was born and I'm too old for any of that . . ."

Una felt a pang. Amelia had been anxious over this and she hadn't noticed. It had been a busy time, with harvest and planning for the festival, but she chastened herself nonetheless.

"Don't look like that, Una," Amelia pleaded. "I didn't tell you. I knew it wouldn't come to anything."

Amelia's hand was cold and lax in hers, but Una pressed it fondly. "I'm very sorry."

A smile shone through the tears streaming down Amelia's plump cheeks. "Don't be sorry, Una. I'll be fine. It's just one more thing, isn't it? Harvest barely covered our costs this year and the house payment is due to old Mr. Pelham and I don't know how we'll make it, even with the money the girls made at the cannery this summer. But now school's on again and I _won't_ let them fall behind. Maybe it's for the best . . ."

She broke into a wracking sob that said plainly that it wasn't. Una stretched a consoling arm around her friend, letting her ruin what was left of the handkerchief and whispering comforts and promises of help that Amelia was too distressed to refuse.

*/*/*

When the sun had slipped behind the treetops and the breeze gone from brisk to biting, Una urged Carl to take Cecilia home to Ingleside.

"We can wait for you," Carl said as he helped break down the tables and fold the cloths.

"No, please, go ahead. I told Faith we'd have Ceci home by suppertime. I just need to speak with Father Daniel."

"But how will you get home, Auntie Una? You don't even have your tricycle."

Una placed a pile of tablecloths in Ceci's arms, chivvying her toward the truck. "Shanks' pony will do for me," she said, brushing off Carl's further offer to return for her in an hour.

It was easy to find Father Daniel, though claiming a moment of his time proved more difficult. He seemed to be everywhere at once, dismantling the stage, thanking the volunteers for their service, receiving the cash box from Deacon Saunders. Una waited patiently, busying herself by collecting trash from the festival grounds, filling a sack with bits of paper and discarded crusts, and saving a fistful of tinfoil for the Boy Scouts.

"Miss Meredith?" Father Daniel said, approaching when they were the only two left among the indigo shadows.

Una looked up from her garbage to find his round, earnest face tilted in curiosity. She had waited an hour or more to speak with him, but close up, she saw the slump of his shoulders and the creeping redness of eyes that would rather not remain open.

"You're tired," she said. "Forgive me. It can wait."

"I think perhaps I could sit for a moment," Father Daniel conceded. "But a cup of tea wouldn't go amiss. Won't you join me?"

A quarter hour later, the rectory tea kettle sang and Una insisted that Father Daniel stay where he was on the ancient horsehair sofa.

"The festival was a great success," he said, accepting a cup from Una and holding it under his nose to let the fragrant steam caress his face. "We should be able to send the Red Cross a very respectable check."

Una settled herself into the tufted armchair with her own tea. "I'm glad to hear it."

"I was afraid the rain wouldn't hold off, but we were lucky. The games all went swimmingly and those Maylock girls can really sing, can't they? They're lovely in the choir, of course, but they could sing for the radio! Deacon Saunders told me . . ."

Una let him rehash the day's events, sipping her tea and wondering whether she should have gone with Carl after all. It had been a long day and the Newgate family's difficulties would be no different tomorrow.

"Now, what did you wish to tell me, Miss Meredith?"

"It can wait," Una said.

"We're here now," he smiled. "Why don't you get it off your chest?"

Una settled her cup into its saucer and sighed. "I'm quite worried about the Newgate family," she confessed. "Mr. Newgate is poorly and worse every year, and they have to keep most of their potato crop just to eat. Mrs. Newgate came to me today and . . ." Una hesitated, not wanting to betray confidences, even to a priest. "She hasn't been well either," she ended feebly.

Father Daniel rubbed an eye with his knuckle. "What do you propose, Miss Meredith?"

"I don't quite know," Una confessed. "I know that Mr. Newgate has applied for a pension, but he might not get much from it, even if he is approved. Perhaps we might help him find a job that is easier on his back than farming. In any case, I think the family will need some relief this winter."

Father Daniel frowned into his cup. "I see. Well, I can certainly ask around about work. We do have a little in the parish funds for charitable relief at home. It isn't much, mind you, but we can keep them fed at least until some decision is reached about Mr. Newgate's pension."

"Thank you," Una said. She would have said more, but the frown was still etched in Father Daniel's face and he did not look up from his tea. It was an unusual posture for the convivial priest and Una found the direction of her concern shifting. "Is something amiss, Father?"

He let out a long sigh, quite the most despondent sound she had ever heard from him.

"Why is it," he asked, "that I am only just now finding out about all this?"

Una blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Father Daniel clicked his cup into his saucer. "I've been rector of this parish for a year and a half," he said, exasperation evident in his voice. "I think I've been doing a decent job. I've certainly done everything I can to serve the congregation. But sometimes . . . it just feels like the people don't trust me."

It had not occurred to Una that her dilemma might have any implications beyond the Newgates' obvious need. Certainly she had not meant to impugn Father Daniel in any way.

"They do trust you," she said hesitantly.

"Evidently not," he said. "If they did, they would bring their problems to me. But they don't; they go to you and leave me to hear only what you don't solve on your own first."

In all fairness, Una had to admit that this was perfectly true. There were a hundred little problems that she never brought to Father Daniel's attention — Timothy Drew's colic driving his mother to distraction and Maggie Wallace's rheumatism making it impossible for her to set her bread and Ida Perry's endless squabbles with her daughters-in-law — but why should she? These things could be solved or smoothed over with a helping hand or a listening ear, and no need to trouble the priest over them. There were other things, too — things that required more trust than even a priest could build in a year and a half.

"They've known me a long time," Una said. "And sometimes . . . sometimes there things that they can't tell to a priest."

Father Daniel's brows contracted. "What sort of things?"

Ordained or not, Una had a duty to the secrets that people entrusted to her. "Woman things," she said vaguely.

The harsh note in his chuckle startled Una and put her on her guard. "It shouldn't matter that I'm a man. I'm a _priest_ , for goodness' sake. I'm supposed to counsel everyone — man, woman, child . . . it shouldn't matter, should it?"

Una pressed her lips together and said nothing. A glance toward the window showed the first tentative drops of rain. It would be better to get going before the skies opened.

"I really must be getting home," she said, clearing her cup and saucer and putting out her hand for Father Daniel's dishes.

He did not give them. "Forgive me, Miss Meredith. I didn't mean to grumble. I was only distressed to learn that there are troubles among my flock that I am not privy to. Clearly, I must work harder to gain their trust."

Una could have left well enough alone, nodding agreement and ending the conversation there. How many times had she done just that with Father Kirkland, swallowing a disagreement along with her tea to preserve harmony? If pressed, she would not have been able to articulate what loosened her tongue in Father Daniel's presence, except maybe to guess that their lessons together had made her used to a bit of gentle sparring.

"I think," she said, "that there will be some things they will never tell you. The women at least. That isn't your fault and you shouldn't count it a deficiency in yourself or your effort."

This seemed to surprise the priest, and his surprise surprised Una in return. Had he really never considered that there were sins and sufferings that no woman would lay at the feet of a powerful man, well-meaning but still relatively unknown, who might condemn or misunderstand? What woman would confess to him that she resented her breastfeeding child for driving her to exhausted delirium? Or ask for help treating a venereal disease before her husband returned from sea? Or admit how many bruises hid beneath her clothing? Certainly the women of Lowbridge had never spoken of these things to Father Kirkland and she suspected that they did not tell Dr. Parsons either, except when strictly necessary. Una wondered whether the Glen women had taken Dr. Blythe and Jem into their confidence. Certainly they were both more sympathetic than Dr. Parsons and more familiar than Father Daniel. But intimacy had two faces, and Carl never saw any doctor but Di.

"It isn't your fault," Una said, meaning it as consolation.

"Everyone should be able to trust a priest," Father Daniel said dejectedly. "Sex shouldn't matter."

"It shouldn't," Una agreed, the tightness in her chest emerging as a clipped tone. "But it does."

"So I should just resign myself to perpetual inadequacy?" he asked, ruffling like a wet hen. "I'm unable to minister to my whole congregation just because I'm a man?"

Father Daniel might be tired and he might be agitated, but not even the most absent-minded minister could have missed the hot flush on Una's face as she set her teacup down on an end-table, not even bringing it to the kitchen. Neither could he have missed her abrupt exit from the sitting room, nor the emphatic click of the front door as it closed behind her.

*/*/*

It was raining in earnest now, leaving Una sodden and shivering before she had walked a quarter mile. The burning sensation in her throat might have kept her warm if she had not released it as sobs, lost amid the splash and patter of raindrops.

Really, this was very stupid. How had a quiet cup of tea and a routine bit of parish business gone so far awry? She was over-tired, that was all, and Father Daniel was as well.

But exhausted or not, Una could not deny that Father Daniel's words had stung her out of all proportion. Was she so jealous of her bailiwick that she couldn't stand to have a priest minister to his own congregation? No one likes to be usurped, but there was need enough in the community to keep half a dozen pastors running from dawn til dusk. Besides, there was little danger that the women of Lowbridge would start bringing all their problems to Father Daniel anytime soon, so what was there to grudge him?

Una circled this problem round and round without coming any nearer the point until a low rumble interrupted her thoughts. At first, she thought it might be thunder, but no, it was getting louder. Una paused in the road and looked over her shoulder to find a single headlight approaching, attached to some growling, low-slung vehicle.

"Miss Meredith!" Father Daniel called from under his dripping Sou'wester as he pulled Jenny up to idle beside her.

"What are you doing?" Una shouted over the roar. "You shouldn't be out here!"

"Neither should you!" he yelled back. "I'm sorry! I don't know what happened back there! I upset you somehow and I'm sorry!"

Una shook her head, sending trickles of water running down the back of her collar. "It's not your fault! I'm only tired and want to go home?"

"Let me take you!" Father Daniel bellowed.

Una eyed Jenny dubiously. The motorcycle was slick with rainwater, rattling like a rock tumbler, and had no obvious second seat.

"All aboard!" the priest said, scooting all the way forward on the seat to make just enough room for Una.

She hesitated. That was an awfully little bit of seat and she never would have sought a ride on Jenny under normal circumstances. But it was raining and Una was done in and she wanted nothing more to be transported home to the snug security of her own bed.

"Hold your skirt away from the chain!" Father Daniel advised as she slung one leg over Jenny's croup.

Una did as she was bid, gathering her sopping skirt tight around her legs. After a moment's timidity, she clutched Father Daniel around the waist, fingers slipping over the surface of his mac. If he wasn't warm, he was at least solid, which was an undeniable comfort. The engine revved into a more insistent roar and they were off, rumbling down the Lowbridge Road and into the pouring night.

* * *

Notes:

*The fate of Anne's leftover pumpkin preserves in _Anne of Windy Poplars_.

**For Una and the doughnuts (and cookbooks) see _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 9: "Una Intervenes."

And before I get an earful from somebody, please assume that Carl is in the truck, driving back toward Lowbridge looking for Una at this very moment and they pass one another on the road.


	42. One Ghastly Yellow Wreck

Content warning: violence, war-related death

* * *

 **One Ghastly Yellow Wreck**

* * *

December 1940

* * *

 _The reports came from trappers on both sides of the lake. First attempts to reach the spot where wreckage would have fallen if the reports were correct were hampered by ice, thick enough to hold the weight of men near the shore, but treacherous and broken up further out._

\- _The Charlottetown Guardian_ , 16 December 1940

* * *

On the morning of Gil's wings parade, Shirley dressed with extra care. Rilla and Ken Ford would be in the audience today, up from the city to see their boy receive his wings. Most of the graduates would be promoted to the rank of Pilot Sergeant, but the few who had distinguished themselves in training would be commissioned as Pilot Officers. McMullen had given Shirley permission to be the one to pin Pilot Officer Ford's wings and to present him with the certificate of special distinction for graduating at the head of his class.

Shirley wondered whether the erstwhile Captain Kenneth Ford would salute him when they met. Ken was a civilian now and not under any obligation to show deference to a superior officer, but Shirley meant to stick close to McMullen and see what happened. He straightened his tie in the mirror and tried not to look smug.

*/*/*

There were flurries of snow at breakfast-time and Shirley delayed his usual coffee and eggs to check the meteorology reports. They had been revised since last night, warning of snow squalls in the area, where before they had predicted only light precipitation. Shirley didn't bother checking in with McMullen before he got on the blower to Sgt. Dixon and ordered him to ground all flights until further notice.

"Yes, sir," Dixon replied. "But sir, we've just sent out five kites to do one last round of formation flying before the wings parade."

"Which ones?" Shirley asked.

"Some of the new Nomads, sir."

"No, I meant whose cadets?"

"Ramsay's, sir."

 _Of course._

"Thank you, Dixon."

Really, it was a good thing he had skipped those eggs. All the way to McMullen's office, Shirley's stomach twisted in knots. Of course it was Ramsay going out for one last practice. Ramsay would be leaving them after today, off to take a post like Shirley's at one of the new SFTSes. He'd want to show that his cadets were the cream of the crop. And the boys would have been game for it, Gil Ford leading the charge, no doubt. Had they even bothered to check the weather?

"Sir?" Shirley said, knocking perfunctorily as he entered the office.

McMullen looked up from the speech he was practicing.

"Sir, I've grounded all flights. The weather is getting worse."

A raised eyebrow was McMullen's only reproach for Shirley's presumption in issuing such orders. "If you say so, Blythe."

"I do. But sir, Ramsay has already taken his students up for a formation exercise."

"Ramsay?" McMullen said, smoothing his mustache. "That group wouldn't happen to include one Gilbert Ford, would it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go get some coffee, Blythe. They'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Yes, sir."

Shirley did not go to the mess. Instead he donned his overcoat and climbed the ladder-like steps on the exterior of the control tower, startling the single, scarf-swathed air traffic controller. There was no ground-to-air wireless at Camp Borden.* Even if there had been, the chances of communicating through the intensifying storm would not have been good. Unable to call Ramsay home to base, Shirley stood silently before the wall of windows, breathing in long, slow breaths as he scanned the sky for any hint of yellow amid the gray.

*/*/*

By noon, there was a foot of snow on the ground and conditions so bad you could hardly see the hangars from the tower. The air traffic controller — Pickering, wasn't it? — had generously shared his own coffee, but Shirley was loath to drink more than a cup and risk the jitters. He had just lit a third cigarette when Pickering pointed a finger skyward.

"Call Sgt. Dixon," Shirley ordered. "Get the ground crews out here."

One sun-yellow Nomad floated down through the swirling snow, kissing the runway and skidding before coming to a safe stop. Then a second, a third, and a fourth. Shirley searched the clouds for the final plane, but saw only a pearly haze, empty and silent. Fear prickled at his edges, but no, it wouldn't do to get ahead of things. Talk to Ramsay first.

Slipping down the slick steps to the runway, Shirley turned the lapels of his greatcoat all the way up as a barrier against the driving snow. Ramsay was already climbing out of his kite, dark eyes huge behind his goggles as he recognized Squadron Leader Blythe stalking toward him. It was difficult to tell in the snow, but Shirley thought he saw him shudder.

"Sir, I . . . I . . ."

"Who's missing?" Shirley asked, already knowing the answer.

"F-F-Ford, sir," Ramsay shivered.

"Get inside," Shirley ordered. Then, barking at Dixon's technicians, "I want all these pilots inside and warm within five minutes, is that understood?"

He did not stay to hear the _yessirs_.

Shirley did not carry Ramsay to headquarters by the scruff of his neck, but that didn't stop the younger man from cowering like a frightened pup. For once, Shirley was glad when Davenport popped up at his elbow, sending him off for towels and more coffee.

When Ramsay stood before McMullen's desk, ash-pale, with his dark hair plastered to his scalp, Shirley almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"We saw the storm coming," Ramsay chattered. "I signaled the boys to bank right and avoid it, but I guess Ford didn't see the signal. When we came out the other side of a cloud, he wasn't with the others. We circled and looked, but soon there was nothing but snow and we had to punch it for home."

"What time?"

"1057 hours, sir."

"That's when you lost him or when you turned back?"

"That's when I noticed he was missing, sir. We stayed out looking for another 30 minutes until it got too bad to see anything."

"Where were you?" McMullen asked as Shirley chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Uh . . ." Ramsay looked toward the map table. Shirley cleared the stacked files obscuring the map, scattering them across the floor with a swipe of his arm.

"Here, sir," Ramsay said, pointing to the thousand lakes of the Muskoka region to the north. "East of Georgian Bay, north of Lake Simcoe."

"Any other details?"

"Visibility was very poor, sir."

Shirley steeled himself to ask what he needed to ask. "Do you think it's possible that Ford was able to put down safely?"

To Ramsay's credit, he maintained eye contact. "If anyone could, it's Ford, sir."

McMullen dismissed Ramsay with orders to clean himself up and find out if Pownall or Morrison or any of the other cadets had noticed any additional details. Shirley was already rummaging for a pencil and ruler.

"How long could Ford fly without refueling, Blythe?" McMullen asked.

"About seven hours, sir."

McMullen checked his watch. "If he's still airborne, he has a couple of hours left. He may navigate back on his own if the visibility improves."

"Yes, sir."

 _It won't._

"If not, can he land by instruments in a white-out?"

"Yes, sir."

 _As long as he's not over a lake. Or a forest. Or a mountain._

"Alright. In that case, we're going to assume that Ford is sitting pretty somewhere and that his biggest problem is going to be the cold. You devise a search grid, Blythe. I'll assemble the junior officers and explain the situation before wings parade."

Shirley was stunned. "Wings parade, sir?"

"The families are already arriving. We'll keep it short. Can't send the boys out searching in this mess anyway."

"Family . . ." Shirley croaked. "Sir, Ford's parents . . . my sister . . ."

"I'll ask the chaplain to find them. What are their names?"

"Rilla, sir. Rilla Ford. And Kenneth . . ."

Mere hours ago, Shirley had imagined facing Ken today. But not like this.

" _Rilla_ , you say? Alright, Blythe. Carry on. I'll be back."

When McMullen left, Shirley took one deep breath and tackled the map, working over it in a haze of trigonometry, guesswork, and sublimated terror.

 _Devise a grid._

 _Narrow the search._

 _Remember to breathe._

When Davenport came to check on him, Shirley sent him for every meteorology report he could lay hands on, then spent the next hour plotting the trajectory of reported snow squalls, attempting to determine which was the one Ramsay had reported hitting. He got a lucky break when Ramsay returned, bringing Pownall's recollection that he had seen the lights of Gravenhurst shortly before things went pear-shaped. They bent over the map together, measuring and muttering.

*/*/*

"Are you scared?" Shirley asked, taking a knee in front of the golden-haired boy.

" _No_ ," Gil snapped, though his italics did not still the pale, slender fingers as they worried the strap of his flight goggles.

Shirley had a moment of doubt. True, the kid had aced all the drills and quizzes he had set for him on the ground. Gil was a born pilot to his fingertips, but was he really ready to fly? After all, he was still a few months shy of twelve. Shirley would be with him every step of the way and could take over the controls if Gil panicked, but he didn't want to set him up for failure. Better to wait than to have his first attempt end in disappointment and a bruised ego.

Shirley looked over his shoulder at the treeline, where his own father was sitting in a canvas camp chair with a newspaper, waiting to watch Gil's first takeoff. Dad waved a broad, genial hand and Shirley waved back, wondering if perhaps the pressure of having an audience might not be making things worse.

"Listen, Gil," he said, turning back to his nephew. "It's alright to be afraid. In fact, it's better to know that you're scared than to pretend that you aren't."

Gil evidently found that difficult to believe, judging from his scowl.

"I mean it," Shirley continued. "Everybody gets scared."

" _You_ don't," Gil challenged.

A grim chuckle hid somewhere deep in Shirley's chest, but he knew better than to let it out. "Course I do," he said.

"Really? When?"

Shirley could hardly say, _when Carl went to buy bread from a boulangerie_ or _when Mother Susan came to the hangar with a spice cake instead of a goodbye_ or _when you ran away from home and knocked on my door_. But the storm-eyed boy still needed a real truth, not a child's lie.

"I was scared the first time I tested one of my homebuilts," Shirley admitted honestly. "I built the whole plane myself, and I knew that I'd be in real trouble if I had made any mistakes."

That seemed to be a fear that Gil could understand. He nodded, his brow relaxing. "What did you do?"

"The same thing I did in the war," Shirley said, both because it was true and because he knew it would focus Gil's attention. "I took slow breaths to stay calm. I trusted myself and my work, knowing that I had checked everything twice. And I talked to myself."

"You talked to yourself?"

"Yep. When you're scared, your brain goes every which way and it's hard to focus on what you need to do. So I talked myself through every step. _Put on your harness. Check your instruments. Go easy on the throttle._ "

Gil thought for a minute, then grinned like a Cheshire cat. "I didn't think you were much for talking."

Looking back, it might have been the first time Gil had addressed him as a person, rather than as an authority figure. Shirley had smiled and tapped his own temple with a long, brown finger. "On the inside."

That made Gil laugh, all italics and fidgeting and nerves floating away in the brisk wind off the Gulf.

"Are you scared?" Shirley asked again.

"A little."

"That's alright. You'll be brilliant. And I'll be right there with you. Now, let's both take a slow breath together."

*/*/*

Half an hour before wings parade was scheduled to start, McMullen returned to the office leading three astonished civilians. They were dressed festively, flowers pinned to Rilla's green blouse despite the season, Ken's shoes shined and polished despite the snow. Shirley's guts felt like water, but he stood up straight. God, Victoria looked so much like her mother at sixteen he might have called her _Rilla_ by accident. As for Rilla herself, Shirley recognized the haunted look their mother had worn the last time he had seen her. And Ken . . . well, Shirley diverted his gaze, delaying the moment when he would have to absorb that scathing look of accusation and know that for once, he deserved it.

"Victoria, sweetheart, why don't you wait in the chair out in the hall?" Ken said gently to the girl with the ruddy-brown curls.

"Flight Lieutenant Ramsay will be pleased to escort you," McMullen said, snapping his fingers at Ramsay and motioning him toward the door.

Neither Victoria nor Ramsay seemed particularly pleased by this dismissal, but they obeyed orders, closing the door behind them as they left. Shirley would have followed them gladly, but it was his duty to stay and he would not add _shirker_ to his derelictions.

McMullen cleared his throat. "Mr. and Mrs. Ford. I'm afraid I have troubling news. This morning, your son Gilbert went out on a routine training mission and has not yet returned."

There was a beat of suspense, in which nothing moved save the twitching of Ken's jaw and the drifting snow against the windowpanes.

"Gil . . . is . . . missing?" Rilla asked, bewildered.

"Yes, ma'am. Technically."

"Technically?" Ken glowered. "What does that mean?"

McMullen adopted a conciliatory tone. "It's not terribly unusual, Mr. Ford. Inexperienced pilots frequently get separated from their training groups. They generally put down safely in a field somewhere and hitch a ride back to base with a local farmer. We don't officially report them missing until there's some reason to believe they might be in trouble."

Shirley flicked a glance at the window behind McMullen, where a floodlight illuminated a streak of swirling snow, trailing off into darkness.

Rilla had followed the same train of thought and was staring at the window, transfixed. "It's so cold . . ." she murmured.

"The men are dressed for cold-weather conditions, Mrs. Ford," McMullen said. "It's much colder at 20,000 feet than it is on the ground, and that's what their equipment is made for."

"Commander McMullen," Ken said, his voice gruff and low. "Is there any chance that Gilbert . . . that is, is there any hope that he is still alive?"

McMullen bristled at this bald doubt. "Of course, Mr. Ford, of course! Why, young Ford's an excellent flier, perfectly capable of making a safe landing somewhere. As soon as the weather clears a bit, we'll be sending our search teams out to find him. Squadron Leader Blythe has been working on the plan all afternoon."

Together, Rilla and Ken turned toward Shirley, who was dismayed to find that it was not, in fact, possible to will yourself into invisibility. Yes, he was working hard to put everything right, but the flash in Ken's eyes said plainly enough that he'd always suspected that Gil would come to grief on Shirley's watch. Now Ken was vindicated and it was all Shirley could do to absorb the blow and remain standing.

The clock on the bookcase chimed and McMullen excused himself to conduct the wings parade.

"My apologies for having to leave you, Mr. and Mrs. Ford," he said, shaking hands again. "I've arranged for you to stay the night at a guest house in town — lovely spot, my wife recommends it. Squadron Leader Blythe will see you settled, and we'll send word as soon as there's anything to tell."

The click of the door latch reverberated through the silence that McMullen left in his wake. Rilla and Ken stood rooted to the carpet, staring at the spot where he had been a moment earlier. Shirley knew he was supposed to say _something_ — a word of condolence? encouragement? apology? — but nothing came. When Rilla lifted stricken hazel eyes to his, he had nothing to offer her.

Ken was the first of them to thaw. In a sudden motion, he turned, taking one long, menacing step toward the map table and jabbing at Shirley's chest with a finger that badly wanted to be a fist.

" _You . . . you . . ._ " Ken spluttered, struggling for mastery of his tongue.

"Ken!" Rilla exclaimed, catching at her husband's sleeve. "It isn't his fault."

"It _is_ his fault," Ken hissed. "When you command men and one . . . _goes missing_ . . . it's on your head!"

For once in his life, Shirley agreed entirely with Ken Ford.

*/*/*

A dogfight was an altered state. Before it began, you might know what day it was and which way was up and where you were and how you got there. But as soon as it started, the ordinary rules of time and direction and place didn't apply anymore. Seconds might be hours or the other way around, and every little sound and flash was amplified to fill the entirety of your very tiny universe. Instinct and experience combined in an alchemy of decisive action somewhere beyond conscious thought, and you had to trust yourself and your training. _Slow breaths. Talk through it. Draw a bead. Fire._ When it was done, you emerged as from a pool, surprised to find that the wider world still existed and that somehow it was still Thursday.

In after days, Shirley found that he could not reliably reconstruct that night in anything like chronological order. There was only a series of impressions — shaded squares on the map, coordinates blooming over a page from the pencil he wore to a stub, the comforting rationality of a ruler's edge. At some point, Davenport brought a sandwich, which Shirley ate medicinally. There was coffee, too, though he didn't taste it, and cigarettes, which he only noticed when they ran out. At some point, McMullen asked him to clarify his thinking — _why here instead of here?_ — and Shirley gave satisfactory answers.

"It's a good plan," McMullen said. "We'll send the boys as soon as the weather clears."

*/*/*

There was no sunrise, only a gradual lightening of the flat gray sky. The meteorology reports that Shirley snatched from Davenport's hand were better than yesterday, but far from clear. Still, the snow had stopped, and if they were going to wait for completely ideal conditions, they might as well sit tight til spring.

"What do you think, Blythe?" McMullen asked, standing in the yard outside Headquarters and surveying the cloud cover. "Should we send them up or wait til tomorrow?"

Shirley turned his face skyward, frigid wind biting his nose and ears. Gil had been out in this for a day and a night. How much longer could he last?

"It's your call, sir."

"I know it is," McMullen said. "But I value your opinion."

Shirley hesitated. Would he send the search party if it were Pownall out there? Or Morrison? They were all under his protection, not just Gil. But if Gil were here now, wouldn't he be begging for the chance to find his friends?

"I think we should send them, sir."

McMulled nodded. "I quite agree. Still, it's no picnic out there. I won't order anyone up, but I'll allow volunteers to go."

"Yes, sir."

"Ramsay!" McMullen bellowed at the dark-haired Flight Lieutenant who had been hovering at the minimum respectful distance ever since they'd come outside. "Assemble the boys in Hangar A. I want only qualified pilots — instructors and the new graduates. No students."

"Yes, sir," Ramsay called, slipping in the snow as he hurried to comply.

*/*/*

". . . won't require anyone to join the search. This is strictly a volunteer operation. The weather's not as nasty as it was yesterday, but it's still hairy, no doubt about it. Still, Squadron Leader Blythe has drawn up a sensible search grid and I think we've got a shot at finding Ford."

If there had been a rat in the hangar today, you would have been able to hear it in the pauses between McMullen's statements. There were fifty men gathered, every one of them minutely attuned to the proceedings. Most were attired in battle dress; some already had goggles in their hands. It was less a question of whether they should be ordered into the air than whether they could be stopped.

"If you wish to participate in the rescue effort, we'll send you out two to a kite," McMullen explained. "Instructors will fly, new graduates will ride along as observers. Now then, do we have any volunteers?"

It would be impossible to say which of the fifty hands shot up first, but Shirley would have given the prize to Ramsay.

"Alright, then," McMullen said, puffing out his chest. "Every flight instructor should choose an observer. Squadron Leader Blythe will assign you a section of the search area."

The hangar floor boiled into action as instructors claimed their favorite students. Nearly every man in Gil's class was here, along with most of the junior officers, even those who were assigned to other classes and had likely never met him. Shirley saw Ramsay shake hands with Pownall while stocky, reliable Flight Lieutenant Trent clapped Morrison on the back.

They could do this. The men were willing and the weather was holding and if they could spot the wreckage . . . no, the _landing site_ . . . they still might be able to get to Gil in time.

Shirley took up a piece of chalk and began assigning map coordinates.

*/*/*

"We'll find him, sir," Ramsay said on the runway, just before he climbed into the cockpit of his yellow Nomad.

Shirley squinted out over the snow. Would Gil's yellow fuselage be visible? Would the drifting snow have covered it already?

"If you run into weather, you turn back immediately," Shirley ordered.

"Yes, sir," Ramsay said, saluting.

Shirley sent him on his way with a salute and a pang, wishing he were going as well. But someone had to run this show, keep track of everything, narrow down the search perimeter. He felt fettered, earthbound as he was, and would much rather have been strapping on a harness than sending the others. He watched Ramsay and Pownall lift free and diminish until their yellow speck was lost amid the clouds. Then Trent and Morrison and another and another and another until all of Camp Borden's newest pilots and their teachers were airborne at once, searching the snow-blanked countryside of Ontario for their missing classmate.

*/*/*

The first searcher to return was Flight Lieutenant Holyoke, who leapt from his cockpit, stammering as he told what he had seen. McMullen took down the coordinates and deployed the recovery vehicles.

Shirley did not wait for a ride. He went directly to Sgt. Dixon and ordered him to re-fuel Holyoke's kite. Then he took it out by himself, flying low over the snowbound landscape, searching for the unlooked-for disaster. He thought he had considered all the possibilities, but imagination had nothing on reality.

*/*/*

When Pilot Officer Gilbert O. Ford staggered back to Camp Borden, soaked, exhausted, and on the verge of hypothermia, McMullen waited only until he was stabilized before bursting into the infirmary to demand a full report.

Rilla and Ken came next, hollow-eyed and disbelieving in their relief, and Victoria sobbing with gratitude.

"Where's Uncle Shirley?" Gil asked.

At the moment, Shirley was in the air alone, circling a spot on the shore of a frigid lake at the edge of the search grid. He had spotted one ghastly yellow wreck in the shallows, but not the other. It was here somewhere, though.

 _Not Gil's, thank God._

Holyoke had seen it with his own eyes, watching in horror as the Nomads piloted by Flight Lieutenants Ramsay and Trent collided in midair, broke apart, and plummeted to the ice-black waters below.**

* * *

Notes:

*One major question I had was whether Camp Borden had ground-to-air wireless communication in 1940 (and plane-to-plane wireless communication). I started out assuming that they did, since it was a technology that existed and was in use by the RAF during the Battle of Britain. But more research made me doubt that they had a functioning ground-to-air system at Camp Borden in 1940. In press accounts of the events that inspired this chapter, there is ample discussion of pre-planning for the rescue op, but no mention of radio communication either with the searchers or from the lost planes. Press accounts of another fatal crash at Camp Borden earlier in the year described it without wireless communication: "Lookout men in the control tower saw the 24-year-old flyer leave the field on a solo flight. They watched his progress during the short time he was in the air and suddenly noticed his lights disappear, his plane apparently plunging earthward" ( _Charlottetown Guardian_ , 1 May 1940).

I have also seen pictures of the Camp Borden control tower in 1940, which seems to have a ground telephone and an air traffic controller with a very pistol (flare gun), but no wireless equipment and no large external antenna (see bit . ly / 2vn1Bqj and bit . ly / 2Oht8As). So I've told this story as if the planes at Camp Borden in 1940 have internal intercoms, but not wireless communication with the tower or one another. I'm happy to be proven wrong with a reliable source.

**This episode is inspired by a series of real events, but all the names and many details are fictional. This story is a work of fiction and does not reflect the actual actions or motivations of the real historical people involved. For coverage of the real graduation-day crashes in December of 1940, see the Toronto _Globe and Mail_ , "Student-Pilot Is Missing on Wing-Qualifying Trip" (Dec. 13, 1940), _Toronto Daily Star_ , "Newly Winged Mates Seek Lost Camp Borden Aviator" (Dec. 13, 1940), _New York Times_ , "Five Canadian Fliers Lost" (Dec. 14, 1940) and others. In all, Camp Borden lost nine cadets and instructors to fatal crashes between October 30 and December 13, 1940.


	43. To Those Who've Fail'd

**To Those Who've Fail'd**

* * *

December 1940

* * *

 _To those who've fail'd, in aspiration vast,  
_ _To unnam'd soldiers fallen in front on the lead,  
_ _To calm, devoted engineers—to over-ardent travelers—to pilots on their ships,  
_ _To many a lofty song and picture without recognition—I'd rear a laurel-cover'd monument,  
_ _High, high above the rest—To all cut off before their time,  
_ _Possess'd by some strange spirit of fire,  
_ _Quench'd by an early death._

\- Walt Whitman, "To Those Who've Fail'd"

* * *

When the delivery boy handed him a telegram, Carl's throat closed over and the world seemed to shift beneath his feet.

But no, it wouldn't happen like this. Dr. and Mrs. Blythe were Shirley's official next of kin, and if anything telegram-worthy were to transpire, Carl would only hear it second-hand.

The typed message said only _K. Eddy 515. Please._ It wasn't until Carl was on the train headed west, a newspaper unfolded in his lap, that he saw the front-page item from Camp Borden — _Wreck of One R.C.A.F Plane Recovered, No Trace of Second_ — and started putting pieces together.

It was an overnight train, but Carl couldn't sleep, picturing Shirley alone in the hotel, not sleeping either. When they pulled into Toronto's Union Station at noon, Carl was the first passenger off, dodging through the crowd and nearly running the few short blocks to the King Edward hotel.

A ruse or two later, he was standing before room 515, knocking for the second time. When no answer came, Carl dithered. He hoped that Shirley had fallen asleep; he feared that he might have to come up with some reasonable explanation as to why the manager needed to break down the door. Both proved unnecessary when the door cracked to admit Carl into the blue-smoke haze.

Shirley still wore his service-dress trousers, his tunic discarded on the floor and his tie hanging undone from his flapping collar. By the rawness of his eyes and the evidence of the ashtray, he had consumed nothing but cigarettes for however long he had been in the room.

"Is it Gil?" Carl asked, heart in his throat.

Shirley shook his head, but did not elaborate.

Well, if it wasn't Gil, it could wait. There was no point asking Shirley to narrate, not in this state. Instead, Carl focused on coaxing him into a bath, sponging hot water over his shoulders until the knots were no longer visible to the naked eye. Then he put him unresisting to bed and stroked his hair until he fell into a silent, enervated sleep. Even slack like this, there were new lines to his face that either hadn't been there in August, or hadn't been quite as noticeable in the gentle light reflecting off the lake.

As quietly as possible, Carl collected all the scattered bits of Shirley's uniform. He hung them person-shaped on a hanger on the outer doorknob with a note asking housekeeping to see that they were laundered and pressed with the trouser creases in front, not running down the sides.* Carl left Shirley's wallet on the nightstand with another note — _Back soon. Stay here._ — just in case Shirley woke to find him gone. He didn't think he would; biology had to take over at some point. Besides, he wouldn't get far without clothes. Sleep. Then food. Those were the easy parts.

*/*/*

"I've gone back over it a hundred times," Shirley said, shaking his head and pushing away the remnants of a sausage roll. "I'm sure I assigned them to different search areas. They should never have been anywhere near one another."

Carl refilled both their water glasses, wishing for an electric tea kettle. Perhaps there was no digesting a story like that under any circumstances, but tap water was plainly inadequate to the task.

"From everything you've said, it was just a terrible accident," Carl said. "Do you really think you could have prevented it?"

Shirley pressed his lips together. "I should have gone myself. It's cowardly to send men on a mission and stay behind."

"And then who would have coordinated the search?" Carl asked, unimpressed. "Just because you were on the ground doesn't mean you weren't helping."

"I should have been in a cockpit."

A retort gathered on the tip of Carl's tongue, but he swallowed it. Let McMullen scold; what Shirley needed was sympathy, even if he was a bloody fool.

"I know you feel awful over it," Carl said, placing a consoling hand on the knee peeking out from under Shirley's towel. "They were good men and it's a terrible loss."

For the first time in an hour, Shirley's posture eased. All through the telling, he had been coiled and brittle, sending Carl's reassurances pinging off his armor like harmless BBs. Now he slumped as much as Shirley ever slumped, which was still far more centurion than odalisque. But perhaps they might actually get somewhere now.

"It's only . . ." he began, "only . . . would I have sent them at all if it hadn't been Gil? Was I really being objective? Thinking clearly about the operation?"

"You make it sound like it was all your doing," Carl said gently. "But McMullen approved the search, didn't he? And you said everyone was eager to go. You didn't force them."

"No," Shirley conceded. "But I did assign them their coordinates. I might have made a mistake. I might have put them too close together. I . . ."

Carl reached across the little table and caught Shirley's hands. "Stop. It was an accident. I don't think you made a mistake. But even if you did, it was still an accident. Two planes crashing into one another in midair . . . no one could have predicted that."

"It should have been me up there," Shirley repeated. "Even if they agreed to go, I should have gone, too. Shared the risk . . ."

"If you had gone, they still would have collided," Carl said, not voicing the other possibility.

"I could have found Gil myself," Shirley muttered. "I did go up, you know. Afterward. I . . . I found one of the wrecks. The other must have gone into the water."

Carl tightened his hold, trying not to imagine the snarl of twisted metal jutting from a dirty crater in the snow, and failing utterly.

"That's why McMullen sent me on leave after the funerals. I led the recovery. It was . . ." he stopped himself short, and Carl wasn't sure whether or not he should be thankful that Shirley had regained enough self-control to censor himself like he always did. ". . . it was very bad," he finished feebly.

"You led the recovery?" Carl echoed, unable to banish images of what that might have entailed.

"It was the least I could do." Shirley blew out a long breath, drawing his hands away and dropping his head into them. "How do people do this, Kit? The officer bit?"

It was an honest question, but not one Carl had an answer for. He did, however, feel a surge of affection for the man asking, who had done what needed to be done in an awful situation, holding himself together until Carl arrived to take over the job.

"You're asking the wrong person," Carl said, unable to suppress a tender smile as he moved his hand to rest in Shirley's hair. "I was in the Army three full years — I was at Vimy Ridge and Hill 70 and Passchendaele and Amiens — and never got promoted, not even once!"

"You must have been pretty hopeless."

"Even so!" Carl protested. "Couldn't they have made me a corporal as a courtesy? I was there for _years_."

Shirley sat up, rubbing life back into his face with both hands.

"It should be easy," he said. "It's just a matter of figuring out the greatest benefit for the smallest risk. But when it was Gil out there . . ."

Carl shook his head. "It's different when it's one of your own."

"So I just throw logic and proportion out the window as soon as things get personal?" Shirley asked, flicking a crumb off the table. "I'm no officer. I told Sam that once, and it was true."

Was it? In Carl's experience, men loved the officers who were willing to share their hardships and respected those who demanded high standards from both themselves and the men under their command. A good officer was brave but not reckless, and never risked a man's life unless it was absolutely necessary. Carl supposed it was possible that there might be men who would make better officers than Shirley. But if winning the war hinged on finding more than a handful of them, Canadians might as well start brushing up on their German.

"You could write to Jem, you know," Carl said gently. "He might have some advice about keeping balance between caring for the men and sending them into danger."

"You think Jem kept balance?" Shirley asked in surprise. "Maybe. But even if he did, Jem was an officer for ten whole minutes before he got captured. I don't know whether he ever ordered anyone over the top."

"Ken did. Ask him."

Shirley laughed at that, a short, incredulous heave of breath that ended in a whimper. "God, it was so bad, Kit. I can't even tell you. Rilla all pale and Ken so angry. He wasn't even wrong — it _was_ my fault."

Oh ho, so that was it. Now things made a bit more sense.

"I never thought I'd hear Ken Ford's words coming out of your mouth," Carl said.

"He was right, though," Shirley said despondently. "Gil was my responsibility. I lost him."

"And you found him."

"Found himself, didn't he?" Shirley grumbled. "The little shit. I came back after finding the crash site, expecting to find Rilla weeping over his frozen corpse, and there he was in the infirmary, eating Jell-O and cracking jokes with Davenport."

It took an effort not to smile at the image, in spite of everything.

"Did you scold him?"

"Course not. I was so damn glad to see him. But still . . . you say you'd give anything to keep them safe, but . . . four lives? For one? The maths don't check out."

Carl reclaimed one of the broad, brown hands and bent briefly to kiss it, noting the faint lightness of the watch outline on Shirley's bare wrist.

"Maths aren't a lot of help when there's someone you care about in the mix."

Shirley sighed in exasperation. "Doesn't that prove that I can't be trusted? I sent four men to their deaths for nothing. Worse than nothing. For my own reasons."

"Not for nothing. To save a fellow airman."

"Well, good work," Shirley muttered. "Saved him so he can go off to goddamn Fighter Command."

"He was always going to do that eventually," Carl said, feeling the conversation slipping away from him. "You helped him do it well. Now he can go stop the Nazis from invading England. And you'll stay here and train others to help him."

"I should be the one helping him."

That got Carl's attention. This flying instructor business was bad enough, but it was merely a pale echo of the long-ago days when he had expected word of Shirley's death to come at any moment. He'd been afraid in the trenches, of course, but always much less afraid of gas or bayonets or shells than of opening a letter from home that started with, _Dear Carl, I'm afraid we've had a telegram . . ._

"You did help him," he said as if picking his way across a minefield. "You taught him to fly in bad conditions. You made sure he had the skills he needed to keep himself safe."

"There's no keeping safe over there!" Shirley said, his voice rising. "The RAF can barely defend London, let alone go on the offensive! The Brits are already exhausted, the Yanks refuse to get involved, and we're sending over brand new, untested pilots who are lucky if they complete two missions before a recovery crew has to hose what's left of them out of a wreck . . ."

Abruptly, Shirley stood and began to pace the room, towel flapping around his knees. His long legs meant it was only possible to take three strides in any direction, but he took them with such purpose that it seemed he might burst the walls and sail into the night.

"You're doing everything you can . . ."

"I'm not!"

Carl almost said, _what else could you do?_ , but if there was an actual answer to that, he did not want to hear it.

"You're needed here," he said instead, not bothering to clarify whether he meant in Canada or at Camp Borden or in this room.

"I'm needed _there_."

Carl might have risen to the bait, but he was no novice himself, and went canny. Rather than meet Shirley's agitation with his own, he tried to tamp down the jitters, crossing his arms to hold them in place.

"Your maths are off again," he said coolly enough to halt Shirley's pacing.

"What?"

"How many pilots do you graduate from Camp Borden these days? Now that the full program's all up and running?"

Shirley frowned. "About fifty a class."

"And a class every month?

"Every three weeks."

"So every three weeks you send fifty pilots to Britain. Call it . . . eight hundred a year?"

"Eight hundred sixty-seven," Shirley muttered.

Carl stood before Shirley and planted his feet wide, arms still folded as he stared him down with one blue eye. If the back of his throat was burning, he still managed to speak steadily. "So you're thinking you want to go to England with Gil because one Shirley Blythe in a cockpit is worth _eight hundred sixty-seven_ other pilots?"

"Maybe."

" _Christ_ , you're arrogant. What are you going to do? Win the whole fucking war single-handed? The next Billy Bishop, right here. Why not just fly to Berlin, kill Hitler, and send everybody home right now?"

Carl had not meant to be funny, but Shirley snorted all the same. "Well now I know there's really a war on if Carl Meredith is swearing!"

"I do swear," Carl said drily. "Sometimes."

"When you're really upset, you say _Christ_."

" _Christ_."

"But I don't think I've _ever_ heard you say _fuck_ before."

"Well, you're a real _fucking_ idiot."

"Am I?" Shirley came to stand toe-to-toe with Carl, who refused to back down. The whole looming, taciturn posture might intimidate green cadets, but it was less effective on someone who could close his eye at any moment and conjure gangly, dripping, laughing Shirley standing soaked in the shallows of the Glen Pond.

"You are. That crash wasn't your fault and you know it. You can't win the war on your own and you know that, too. You're just scared for Gil."

"Am I?"

"Yes. And that's alright. It's very hard to watch someone you love run toward danger. Or fly, I suppose."

Shirley had the decency to look abashed. He had memorized all those letters once upon a time; did he remember them now? _Don't be in such a hurry to come over here, Shirley. I thought I knew what it would be like, but I didn't . . . Don't enlist, Shirley. I mean it._ Carl hadn't been able to delay him then, not even for a single day, and it seemed unlikely that he'd have any more success now.

"I would do it, you know," Shirley said quietly.

"Do what?"

"A one-way mission to Berlin. Kill Hitler. If the maths were ever that good — two lives to stop all this misery . . ."

"Two?"

"Sure. His and mine."

What could you say to that? That no math could ever be enough? That it was a pompous, farcical view of things to think any silver bullet could set the whole world right? That he had miscounted?

"I know you would," Carl said truthfully. Really, it was only a matter of time.

* * *

 _31 December 1940_

 _Willemstad, Curaçao_

 _My Dear Carl,_

 _Forgive me for taking so long to reply to your letter of this past summer. I wished to make some quiet inquiries to a few colleagues and you know what it is to send overseas mail these days. Fortunately, I was able to get a letter through to a friend in Scotland and another to a colleague who has moved his family to the United States from Oxford for safety's sake. Rest assured that I used only my own name and presented my questions as arising from my own observations._

 _I am pleased to report that both of my correspondents were utterly unsurprised by the presence of single-sex couples among various avian populations. My erstwhile Oxfordian informs me most reliably that he has observed several instances of male-male pairs of penguins in his researches in the Antarctic, even witnessing some that have attempted to hatch rocks that they treat as tenderly as they would any egg. Somewhat frustratingly, he neglected to relate more particulars, choosing instead to digress into a diatribe on American manners, which I will spare you._

 _The news from Scotland was equally interesting and a good bit more informative. My friend there is not university-affiliated, having given up her own work to care for her family. However, her children are quite grown up (though, as she says, not yet grown up enough to leave the nest, thank God), and she has made a habit of observing the greylag geese that inhabit the country around her home. She has made very good notes regarding the local population over a number of years. Her observations are so detailed that she has gotten to know individual birds and given them names._

 _She tells me quite reliably that in each of the last eleven years, the proportion of male-male couples among the greylag resident on her estate has remained between 16% and 19% of all mated couples. The greylag mate for life, as I am sure you know, and she reports that the male-male couples are quite as committed as any others, engaging in all activities and behaviors that one might expect from any mated pair. One male-male couple in particular have become her especial friends, living as they do along one of her favorite walking paths (she has named them Achilles and Patroclus)._

 _She does not report any female-female couples among her greylag, but she does note another curious feature of their "domestic arrangements" as you call them. In one case, an established male-female pair took a second male into their family. My correspondent informs me that all three acted as parents to the goslings hatched from their nest and that the two males continued as a pair after the death of the female._

 _As to the evolutionary significance of this bonding (which occurs at such extraordinarily high frequency) my friend provides no ready answer. However, she has observed anecdotally that Achilles and Patroclus are excellent lookouts and do more than their fair share of guarding over their flock while the others are feeding. She says that they are not abnormally aggressive toward other geese, but if a fox or a stoat should dare to come near their gaggle, they become quite fearsome.**_

 _Truly, she has much to say on the subject and such wonderfully thorough notes that I have encouraged her to write up an article — not just about single-sex pair bonding, but about the behavior of greylag geese in general. If she obliges me, I will be sure to send a copy to you, even if it is not possible for her to have it published in an academic journal. As you well know, so much knowledge goes unrecognized due to the prejudice against naturalists who lack a university or other institutional affiliation. Perhaps someone will claim to "discover" this when it is more convenient, never caring that others have known it long before._

 _There now, I have written quite enough about birds — though when can I indulge such enthusiasm, if not in my too-infrequent letters to you? I must observe the niceties of society and tell you that we are all very well here. Bram is putting the finishing touches on an encyclopedia entry about elephant beetles, which means that he has gathered several live specimens. Lotte and Antje find them enchanting and have taken to carrying them around on their shoulders and chattering to them in both Dutch and English. Pieter is coming along in his drawing — I enclose for you a small watercolor of a conch that I must say is a remarkable piece for a boy of nine, though perhaps there is a bit of maternal pride coloring my assessment._

 _As to my own work, I have taken on a commission to illustrate for the same encyclopedia company that has given Bram so much work lately. It is engaging work, even if I do miss being away on expedition. Perhaps when the children are older we shall all go back together. And of course I must be perfectly frank and acknowledge that I would not be able to draw a single feather if not for being able to employ both a nanny and a cook, which is regarded as an extravagance in Canada, but is quite the usual habit of white people on the islands here._

 _Tell me all your news, Carl. We are so fortunate to have our family safe here, though the news from Bram's cousins in Holland is dire. Please know that you are always in my prayers, as is Shirley. I know that this is a very difficult season. Tell Una that I know I owe her a letter and send her a kiss by this one. In spite of everything, her letters have been quite cheerful lately, and I cherish them, as I do you all._

 _Love to you always,_

 _Nellie_

* * *

Notes:

*RCAF airmen wore their pants creased down the front; side-creases were for the Navy. Laurie Philpotts, the Camp Borden-trained fighter pilot from New Brunswick, tells a funny story about pranking one of his friends by having his pants pressed the wrong way.

**If you would like to read some academic articles on greylag goose behavior, I recommend "A Longitudinal Study of Dominance and Aggression in Greylag Geese," Brigitte M. Weiß, Kurt Kotrschal, and Katharina Foerster, in Behavioral Ecology, Oxford University Press, 2011.


	44. The Thing With Feathers

**The Thing with Feathers**

* * *

April 1941

* * *

 _"Hope" is the thing with feathers  
_ _That perches in the soul  
_ _And sings the tune without the words  
_ _And never stops at all_

\- Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

* * *

Shirley found the Australian students exhausting. The first group had arrived in November and the second group just before Christmas, not that Shirley had noticed at the time. When he returned from leave, they seemed to be everywhere. They had an unflagging bonhomie that turned every blizzard into a snowball fight and every walk from barracks to hangar into a bawdy concert. They smiled an awful lot.

But even Shirley had to admit that the Aussies had sent their best in both the first cohort and the second. When their high spirits bubbled over — for example, when LAC Kellogg pushed his Harvard to 400 miles per hour, causing enough damage to the engine to make Sergeant Dixon swear a blue streak — the most effective method of discipline was confining them to quarters, away from the fun. There were other new arrivals, too: New Zealanders, Newfoundlanders, and the occasional Free Frenchman, besides the Yanks who came in on their own conscience and were not turned away. They were good pilots, and if Shirley sometimes heard them grouse about Bloody Bastard Blythe and his impossible standards, well, some measure of distance was best for everyone.

One drizzly evening, the infantry side of Camp Borden sent over their resident variety act to entertain the flyboys. The concert promised to be a jolly affair, featuring a twelve-piece swing band, a guitar-strumming cowboy, various comedians, and the operatic stylings of Lt. Ross Hamilton, who was famous for his performance as the buxom, be-sequined soprano Marjorie. So famous, in fact, that Marjorie had appeared in an official government recruitment film — "Letter from Camp Borden" — that played in cinemas from Vancouver to Charlottetown.*

"Are you sure you don't want to come along, sir?" Davenport asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet when he came to deliver the day's mail.

"You go along, Davenport," Shirley said, as eager to have an evening to himself as he was to avoid spoiling their fun. "Take the rest of the night off."

Davenport's _thankyousir_ was shouted over his shoulder as he vanished through the door, tripping down the echoing hall.

Shirley allowed himself the luxury of kicking off his boots and lounging on the bed as he sifted through his letters. One from Carl, of course, but he'd save that for last. A thick envelope from Di and a parcel from Mum, and a nearly flat letter all the way from England.

The thin flap parted readily to reveal Gil's chaotic chicken-scratch, making up in enthusiasm what it lacked in both length and formality. Shirley smiled at the exuberance radiating from the page — _gee, Uncle Shirley, you should see these Spitfires, boy do they have some pep to them!_ — and read it through twice. Gil's training was nearly complete; any day now, he would take that Spitfire up on a real mission — he might be doing it right this very minute. The weather would be clearing soon and there would be an offensive somewhere, but East or West, Gil would be in the air. All the slow breathing and trust-his-training in the world wasn't quite enough, no matter how hard Shirley tried to believe Carl that they were all where they could do the most good.

Di's letter was more sedate, filled with enough jokes and tidbits from the hospital that she almost managed to cover up her disappointment at the cancellation of their planned reunion at Aster House. Shirley did feel a pang of conscience over that — with Sylvia gone to England, Kingsport must be a lonely spot for all it was so busy.

Second-hand news from Charlottetown was that Nan and Jerry had given Beatrice permission to join the Canadian Women's Army Corps as a typist after she graduated from Charlottetown Ladies' Academy next month. According to Di, the only obstacle was that Bea was as slight as Nan had been at her age and needed to clear the 105-pound weight requirement. _I have advised her to adopt a strict diet of cream puffs, beefsteak, and calisthenics, and to enlist her sisters in cheering her to the finish line. Cordelia in particular has the makings of a fine drill sergeant._ Shirley chuckled, simultaneously pitying the officer who got a daughter of the Charlottetown Merediths for a secretary and envying the consequent efficiency of his administrative operations.

The parcel from Mother contained a book, a tin of homemade toffee, and a letter. Mother wrote mostly of the Ingleside children: Ceci's top marks in English; Jemmy's zeal for the new Victory Loan campaign; assurances of Wally's and Sam's good health. It was the sort of letter she might write to anybody. All except the end:

 _This evening, I was sitting under the trellis in the garden, watching the daffodils nod in the twilight breeze off the harbour. I once told Susan that after I was dead, I would come back to earth in daffodil time to visit all the dear spots I had loved in life. She did not think much of that, as you may well imagine, and scolded me for believing in ghosts. But I thought of her this evening, and of you, and of the day you came into the world so suddenly and precariously. Happy birthday, sweetheart._

 _Please accept this book with my love. It is not my intention to lure you into a literary club or any other sort of confidence. I offer this as a gift only because it made me think of you and I dared let myself imagine that you might find something worthwhile in it._

 _I once told you that a line of poetry was not a convincing argument. I was so very wrong and have been throughly ashamed of myself ever since. You were right and I am so desperately sorry._

Shirley folded the letter and sighed. It had been years since _the iron had entered into his soul_ and the _bitterness of the old grievance_ _was in no whit allayed or softened by time_.** And yet, Shirley was _conscious of an odd feeling of regret_. He was not one to turn the other cheek; he had walked away from that creed a long time ago and never looked back. Still, on a practical level, it did take a lot of energy to tend his _outraged dignity_ and the truth was that he was tired.

Was that forgiveness, then? Letting go of the righteous pain of a still-raw wound because it cost too much to keep licking it open forever? What did it mean to forgive someone who didn't deserve to be forgiven? Carl might say that was kindness; Una would call it grace. Shirley doubted he had enough of either to go giving it away.

The volume was _Poems of Emily Dickinson._ Shirley opened it, but did not get past the endpapers. There was an original sonnet there, inked in his mother's flowing script:

 _I built my nest of dreams upon the shore  
_ _And feathered it with down from my own breast,  
_ _Awaiting chicks to nurture and adore,  
_ _My songs the blithest trilling of the blessed.  
_ _When new-hatched joy was cruelly subdued,  
_ _Not even precious gems could compensate;  
_ _Though each returning spring increased my brood  
_ _And feathered hope perched singing on my gate.  
_ _Each fledgling bore my heart in soaring flight:  
_ _A dauntless rooster and a thrilling lark,  
_ _A double-yolk that trebled my delight,  
_ _A nightingale who warbled in the dark.  
_ __ _But surely there's another loved as dear;  
_ __ _I chirp my penitence in hopes he'll hear._

Shirley ran a thumb over the place where his name-pun marked the volta. Very like Mum to write something so tidy, wasn't it? No, that was uncharitable. Certainly if Shirley himself had ever tried his own hand at verse, he would would have wanted every syllable in its proper place as well. There was something undeniably satisfying about the little puzzle of a rigid structure, and here she had made his name the keystone. It wasn't nothing.

He broke off a piece of toffee and lay back on the pillow with the book, letting the candy dissolve into smooth sweetness on his tongue as he began to read.

* * *

"Is it really alright to plant them this early?" Father Daniel said, pushing rust-colored earth over the spinach seeds Una was sowing in the rectory garden.

"Yes. They like the cold. You leave the next row empty and plant it three weeks from today so that you won't have too much spinach all at once."

Father Daniel chuckled. "I've learned my lesson there and no mistake. I don't know if I can stand to plant any squash at all this year."

The rectory garden was a bare rectangle of churned soil raked into passably parallel rows. The mossy reek of last year's ripe compost and yesterday's warm rain promised future abundance. For now, there were only spinach seeds in a sproutless row and an empty trellis waiting for pea tendrils.

"Don't plant the squash yet," Una said, dusting her hands on one of Mrs. Williams' spare aprons. "Nor the tomatoes either. I suspect you planted those too early last year and that's why they didn't take."

"Perhaps," Father Daniel frowned. "I worried that they wouldn't have time to ripen if I left them too late, though."

Una stood, surveying the spinach row with satisfaction. "You can start the tomatoes indoors. If you grow the seedlings in trays in the kitchen, they'll sprout safe and sound and then you can transplant them out here when the ground is warmer."

"How will I know when the time is right?"

Una ducked her head. "I'll tell you."

She gathered up trowel, seed packets, and the other impedimenta of her task, tucking them safely into a basket with a borrowed pair of Father Daniel's gloves. She had arrived that morning for their scheduled lesson only to find the priest muttering over an almanac, penciling in timid notations and erasing them immediately. His mind was clearly miles away from _Introduction to Ascetical Theology_ , caught up in the more temporal concerns of carrot husbandry. Defeated by the prospect of another year of horticultural catastrophe, he had thrown himself upon Una's mercy, spending an hour peppering her with questions as she drew up a planting plan. A spot of lunch and a sip of tea, and then out into the feeble April sunshine for the practical portion of the unplanned lesson.

"You're quite an accomplished gardener," Father Daniel said, leaning on the fence and dabbing his brow with a handkerchief.

"Hardly," Una demurred. "Our little kitchen garden is just enough to keep us fed and have a bit left over for the Newgates."

"How are the Newgates these days?"

"Doing alright, I think. Archie's pension came through. Only 10%, but it's still a help. And Mr. Pelham is letting them pay this year's lease when they can."

"That's Christian of him," Father Daniel said, picking at a patch of drying mud on his cuff. "Do you know, Miss Meredith . . . I've been thinking about what you said after the festival . . ."

"No," Una interrupted, hugging the basket tight against her stomach. "I shouldn't have said anything. It wasn't my place."

"It certainly was. Don't you see? That's the trouble. This parish is very much your place. Even after two years, I still feel an interloper among the people. Not that they haven't been very kind, of course, but . . . I still don't know them as I should. And they don't know me."

He did not seem agitated, only thoughtful.

"It takes time," Una agreed.

"Yes, but the right kind of time," Father Daniel said earnestly.

He took a breath as if to say something more, thought better of it, and then sallied forth again: "I have been thinking . . . one of the required courses for your program is the _Deaconess Practicum_. You're supposed to do service in the community and I'm supposed to report on your progress. It seems a bit silly. So I thought . . . perhaps we might turn the tables. I could accompany you when you visit people — not just the ones who need sacraments — and help you, I suppose. You could show me what to do."

Una considered the priest in his mud-spattered coveralls, an uncharacteristically bashful cast to his expression as he waited for her answer. Standing by the garden fence in coveralls, swiping at a dirty streak on his face with a dirtier sleeve, he might have been anyone's father or husband, a little nervous to attempt something new.

"I think they'd like that," she said.

"Really?"

Una was forced to smile. "Perhaps not at first. It's a great honor to have a priest in your house, and most people will want to serve you tea with their best china and not let you anywhere near the kitchen. But they'll get used to you."

"You'll help me, though, won't you?"

How many times had Una Meredith heard that question? The answer was always yes, of course. It was only the thrill that was new.

"Yes," she said, fixing a flyaway strand that had escaped from her black braid.

"Wonderful! Tomorrow?"

Una nodded, keeping her face carefully hidden as she carried the gardening tools back to the rectory.

* * *

Notes:

*Lt. Ross Hamilton (1889-1965) was a drag performer ("female impersonator" in the vocabulary of the time) from Pugwash, Nova Scotia who entertained under the stage name Marjorie. Lt. Hamilton first served in the Canadian military as an ambulance driver in WWI. In 1917, he debuted his drag act in France with a vaudeville troop called the Dumbells (another drag performer, Allan Murray/Marie from Montreal was also part of the group). Hamilton joined up again at the start of WWII as an entertainer. His act was featured in a 1940 recruitment film called "Letter from Camp Borden" (which you can watch online). In August 1941, he was "allowed to resign" from the Army due to his sexual relationships with other soldiers at Camp Borden. His 1965 obituary, which ran with a photo of Marjorie, reads in part, "The Nova Scotia soldier lived quietly alone in the hamlet of Pleasant Valley, N.S., surrounded by memories of the flirtatious and enchanting leading lady of the 11 Dumbbells whose stage antics on the front and in major theaters across Canada and the United States won wide acclaim" ( _Montreal Gazette_ , 30 Sept. 1965) For more on Lt. Ross Hamilton, see Paul Jackson, _One of the Boys: Homosexuality in the [Canadian] Military During World War II_ (2009).

** _AOGG_ Chapter 28: An Unfortunate Lily Maid, cobbled together from a few sentences.


	45. Deaconess Practicum

**Deaconess Practicum**

* * *

April 1941

* * *

 _It's all I have to bring today —_ _  
_ _This, and my_ _heart_ _beside —_ _  
_ _This, and my heart, and all the fields —_ _  
_ _And all the meadows wide —_ _  
_ _Be sure you count — should I forget_ _  
_ _Some one the sum could tell —_ _  
_ _This, and my heart, and all the bees_ _  
_ _Which in the clover dwell._

-Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

* * *

The next morning, Una rapped at the rectory door at nine. The smile wilted on her lips when the door opened to reveal a scowling Mrs. Williams, feather duster still in hand.

"Hello, Mrs. Williams," she said pleasantly. "I've come for my lesson with Father Daniel."

"Too early for lessons," the housekeeper grumbled. "Father Caldwell is working in the garden, and I'm still cleaning the parlor."

"Oh, we won't be in your way. We only need the kitchen for a little while, and then we'll go out."

This did not mollify Mrs. Williams to any great extent, but she did step aside, muttering that priests didn't belong in the kitchen at all and that they had better leave things in decent order.

Una slipped into the dark hall, hurrying to remove herself from Mrs. Williams's line of sight. In the kitchen, she set her basket of ingredients on the table and snuck a peek into next week's stew, gurgling sluggishly in the largest of the iron pots. Shades of Aunt Martha, but it looked hearty enough.

A spring breeze ruffled the gingham curtains framing the window over the sink. Una leaned against the basin, looking down over the back lawn to the garden, where Father Daniel was raking compost into the rows set out for onions and carrots, a wide-brimmed sun hat shading his face. He seemed intent on his task, the rake moving in a regular rhythm as he worked his way down the row. When he reached the end, he rested a moment, turning his face toward the rectory.

Before conscious thought intruded, Una had raised her hand in greeting and called, "Daniel!"

This was followed by a little yelp, hopefully less audible than her ill-considered shout. Una bit her lip, hoping that perhaps Father Daniel would assume that his rightful honorific had been lost as it crossed the lawn, rather than omitted. He had certainly heard her, though, and beamed at the window as he returned her wave and set aside his rake.

Una withdrew into the kitchen, chastising herself for the lapse as she tied on an apron and patted her hair flat. There was enough blurring of lines already, what with the new interpretation of _Deaconess Practicum_ , to say nothing of indelible memories of motorcycle rides in the rain. The situation called for decorum.

"Good morning, _Father_ Daniel," she said emphatically when he stepped through the kitchen door.

The priest chuckled as he removed mud-caked boots, setting them beside the trays of new-planted tomato seeds. "Good morning, Miss Meredith. Forgive me; I was not expecting you quite so early. Allow me to go change and then we can be on our way."

"I came early because we need to bake first."

"Bake?"

"Yes," Una said, beginning to unpack her ingredients. "The first rule of visiting is that you should never go empty-handed."

Father Daniel surveyed the butter and onions and butcher-paper packages dubiously, but went off to change out of his gardening clothes. By the time he returned, Una had already mixed up a pat of pastry dough and set it to cool in the ice box. She handed him an apron to preserve his black clerical shirt as they chopped carrots and browned pork in the skillet, overpowering the swampy fug of the stew with the sharper scents of cloves and garlic.

"It smells like Christmas," Father Daniel observed, bending low over the skillet.

Una was not quite prepared to delegate the task of rolling and cutting dough, but she allowed Daniel to fill and crimp the hand-pie shells, arranging the little half-moons on baking sheets for the oven. He was absurdly delighted when they came out crisp and fragrant, even more so when Una demonstrated the marvelous powers of an egg wash on the second batch.

"We'll bring these on our visits," Una explained. "One thing you must understand is that people will try to feed you wherever you go, even if they haven't anything to spare. You must never leave them poorer than you found them."

"I'm afraid I can't actually cook on my own," Father Daniel said, sliding another round of pies onto the cooling rack. "And I doubt they'd thank me for . . ." his eye slid to the churning stew.

"Then plant an extra row of each vegetable," Una said crisply. "Even people who won't take charity will find it difficult to say no to a visitor sharing the bounty of his garden."

The solemn nod did not obscure the laughing crinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes. "I believe I have a reputation to live up to on that score. Perhaps I'll plant more squash after all."

"No, please!" Una laughed. "We've only just recovered! Perhaps carrots this year; I'll teach you how to make them into a cake."

"A bargain," Father Daniel chuckled.

When the pies were cool and the kitchen tidy enough to escape Mrs. Williams's glowering sanction, Una and Father Daniel packed the pies into baskets and set off on their rounds. They chatted as they walked, about gardening mostly, though church affairs always managed to creep in somehow. A late Easter had meant that the Altar Guild had been more than ordinarily pleased with the floral arrangements; the Munro family meant to commission a brass memorial plaque for their Charlie; there was some internal dissension in the choir that neither of them dared approach near enough to decipher.

Una was surprised when the Mitchell residence appeared before them, not having realized that it was such an easy walk from St. Elizabeth's. The visit turned out to be easier than anticipated as well, since Mr. Mitchell was wholly recovered from his most recent tussle with malaria. The children, elated now that they need not tiptoe around the house, fell upon the pies like a horde of locusts and got a round scolding from their mother for behaving like ruffians in front of a priest. Father Daniel assured her that his presence required no bottling of youthful exuberance and settled in to talk war news with Mr. Mitchell while Una helped Mrs. Mitchell hang out the wash.

The second visit was calmer; Mrs. Foster was eager to show off her newborn son and to share the wonderful news that her husband had been promoted from Ordinary to Able Seaman. Her sister served tea in cups whose gilt rims were chipped in several places, and accepted a basket of pies with earnest gratitude.

The last stop was a call on old Mr. Pelham, the Newgates' landlord, who had broken a hip in the last icy week of winter and had not yet recovered. The comfortable, mansard-roofed house was not on Una's regular rounds, as the Pelhams were prosperous enough to regard meat pies with indifference. But Una genuinely liked the old man, and stopped off to trade the last of the pies to a neighbor in exchange for a generous bouquet of her marvelous tulips.

"Does Mr. Pelham like tulips?" Father Daniel asked as they stood side-by-side on the porch, waiting for admittance.

"Most people do, don't they?"

As it happened, _most people_ did not include Mr. Pelham's son Dennis, who answered the door with a sneer.

"My father is unwell," he said, preparing to close the door in their faces.

"Yes, I know," Una said resolutely. "But Mrs. Newgate has asked me to call on him particularly, and I think you will find that he does not mind the intrusion."

Dennis frowned and seemed on the point of refusing.

"I don't believe we've met," Father Daniel said, extending a hand to the man. "I am the Reverend Daniel Caldwell, rector of St. Elizabeth's Church. Very pleased to meet you, Mr. . . Pelham, is it?"

Mr. Pelham the younger could hardly refuse to introduce himself to a priest, not even one who flashed a smug moue at Una as they followed him up the stairs to his father's bedroom.

"Why if it isn't Miss Meredith!" exclaimed the elderly Mr. Pelham from his nest of pillows. He set aside the book he had been reading and struggled to sit up straighter, grimacing against the pain.

"Mr. Pelham," Una smiled, bending to kiss his cheek. "It's been far too long. Please accept my apologies along with these flowers."

"No need for apologies, child. I'm pleased to see you. Dennis!" — this with a snap of the wizened fingers — "Fetch a vase and do see that someone brings up tea for Miss Meredith and her gentleman friend."

Dennis left the room muttering as Father Daniel introduced himself and Una brought chairs close enough to the bed that they could chat comfortably.

"Now, I will warn you, Padre," Mr. Pelham said, "I am a dyed-in-the-wool Methodist and I attend the Methodist preaching every time I'm able and have little enough patience for all your stained glass and Common-Prayer falderal."

Father Daniel laughed. "I'm afraid I've left both back at St. Elizabeth's. But I can fetch the Common-Prayer Book if you'd like to scold it in person. The stained glass is awfully heavy, though."

"He'll do," Mr. Pelham said with a wink to Una.

"Now, Mr. Pelham," Una said, flushing pink as she took his hand, "we can't have you teasing members of the clergy or they won't ever come back."

"I'm afraid I don't have much reason to look forward to many future visits, unless they be with the Almighty," Mr. Pelham said, not unhappily. "So why don't you tell me all the news while I can get it. How are the Newgates getting along?"

They chatted awhile, Mr. Pelham taking occasional swipes at the Church of England to see what he could get away with and Father Daniel parrying amiably. Eventually, a gray-faced woman in impeccable black silk swept in to introduce herself as Jane Pelham and serve them tea from a silver tray.

"Don't sip yet," Mr. Pelham whispered when Jane had disappeared back into the hall. "Let me drink first so you'll have a warning if it's poisoned."

"Mr. Pelham!" Una exclaimed, though beside her Father Daniel vibrated with laughter. "Whyever would you say such a thing!"

"Oh, they're waiting for me to die, the both of them," Mr. Pelham said, slurping his tea. "You know, it's a real blessing that God allowed Jane and my Dennis marry one another, and so ensure the eternal misery of only two people, rather than four."*

Father Daniel spluttered into his cup and even Una felt the urge to giggle was nearly past enduring.

"They'll inherit the house," Mr. Pelham said comfortably. "And there's enough money put by to keep them happy, if they are capable of the sentiment. I've already given the rest to the Methodist Relief Committee for refugees and orphans, Lord knows there are enough of them nowadays. No sense in waiting for these old bones to crumble into dust before they get their cheque."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Pelham," Una smiled. "Though I hope you won't leave us too soon."

"I'm saved, Miss Meredith. Don't you grudge my home-going."

"Be that as it may," said Father Daniel, "would you mind very much if we prayed together? Nothing out of the Common Prayer, I promise."

Mr. Pelham balanced his teacup on the stack of books beside him and reached out his hands, one to Una and one to Father Daniel, who prayed,

 _Merciful Father, we pray that you will wrap Mr. Pelham in your love and comfort him in his time of illness. Please guard the refugees and orphans whom Mr. Pelham has remembered so generously, and extend your mercy to all who suffer._

"And please tell my Emily that I will be arriving shortly, so she needn't fret much longer," Mr. Pelham added.

 _Amen._

Later, walking past Lowbridge High on the way back to St. Elizabeth's, Father Daniel sounded thoughtful.

"So that's what you do every day?" he asked.

"It's not so different from what you do when you go to administer sacraments to the sick or dying," Una said.

"It is, I think," Father Daniel mused. "When I'm called to give sacraments, I've always tried to keep the proceedings formal. Solemn. So that they have weight. This was . . . fun."

"It was a good day," Una agreed. "Sometimes it's a bit messier, when people actually need help caring for the sick or doing unpleasant chores. But yes. Sometimes, it's . . . fun."

"Did I pass?"

"Pass?"

"It's a lesson, isn't it?" he asked. " _Deaconess Practicum_. You're the expert."

Una directed her smile downward, beaming at the red dirt road as they turned into the St. Elizabeth's lot. "I'll be sure to write up a formal report," she said.

"Do," he said, stopping at the step and turning to face her. "And I want to go to the others as well. The ones that are less fun. Sick people and unpleasant chores. Don't just bring me to the Mr. Pelhams."

"There aren't many like Mr. Pelham."

"I have no doubt."

They stood facing one another before the rectory door, Una fidgeting intently with a loop of thread that had come loose on the hem of her basket lining. This was the time for some sort of farewell, though what sort, exactly, remained unclear. They had been together all day, cooking and walking and talking and visiting together, and Una had not felt shy at all, but all of a sudden, she found that she could not look up. What was the matter with her? It was only Father Daniel.

The pause was definitely awkward now and Una knew she must break it. Must say something or do something or at the very least look up and meet Father Daniel's eye. She could do that. She would. In three, two, one . . .

The rectory door swung open, the sudden motion making Una jump. She did look up, into the equally startled face of Mrs. Williams.

"Goodness!" the housekeeper exclaimed. "Forgive me, Father Caldwell, I did not expect you to be loitering on the stoop. I'm just on my way out now. Your supper is on the stove and meals for the week in the icebox."

"Thank you, Mrs. Williams," Father Daniel called as she departed. "I hope you'll have a very pleasant evening."

"I'm afraid I must go, too," Una said. "I have supper to make at home as well."

"When can we go out again? Not tomorrow, I'm afraid I must prepare my sermon. And not Sunday, of course."

"Monday, then?" Una squeaked. "Though of course I'll see you on Sunday. That is, it's not my week to prepare the altar, but I'll be at the service, of course."

"Of course. I look forward to seeing you there."

"Yes."

"Alright."

Oh, why was this so awkward? All she had to do was leave.

"Goodbye, then," Una said, apparently to her toes. She kept her steel-buckled shoes firmly in the center of her field of vision all the way across the yard to the place where she had left her tricycle. She did not look back, not even when Father Daniel called his own farewell as she pedaled away. There was no chance either would ever admit it, but she thought he might have said, "Goodbye, Una."

* * *

Notes:

*I do wish I could claim credit for this line, but it is something the novelist Samuel Butler once said of his friends (!) Thomas Carlyle and Jane Welsh Carlyle, for whom I am developing a certain fondness, despite their prickliness.


	46. Special Duties

**Special Duties**

* * *

April 1941

* * *

 _I never hear the word "Escape"_  
 _Without a quicker blood,_  
 _A sudden expectation –_  
 _A flying attitude!_

 _I never hear of prisons broad_  
 _By soldiers battered down,_  
 _But I tug childish at my bars_  
 _Only to fail again!_

\- Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

* * *

"Watch your airspeed there, Ballantyne," Shirley said over the Harvard's intercom.

Really, Leading Aircraftman Ballantyne was doing fine. He could be a little smoother on those S-turns and no one would ever write home about the beauty of his barrel rolls, but he was competent.

"Take us up to 20,000 feet, please."

How many wings tests had Shirley done? With the larger classes graduating every three weeks, he rarely had time for anything else these days. Shirley certainly didn't mind giving up classroom instruction; the junior officers were welcome to it. But it did get a bit monotonous, spending all day every day running students through the same series of maneuvers over and over again.

"Alright, Ballantyne, I want a stall turn at full power."

It wasn't that Shirley had stopped caring. His standards for the wings test were still high, though the long shadow of his reputation had become more fearsome than the actual rubric. No cadet passed who didn't fulfill the requirements. Still, the urgency had gone out of Shirley's performance, like a touring company that has had its overlong run extended to another hundred one-horse towns.

"I'm going to put you into a spin, Ballantyne. Show me how to get out of it."

It had been a year since the first wartime recruits had left Camp Borden for service in Britain. The men who had sat in Ballantyne's seat had defended London during the Blitz and harassed German forces as they contemplated a cross-Channel invasion. Some were well on their way to becoming aces; others were listed on the memorial plaque outside of McMullen's office. Shirley couldn't honestly say that he remembered all their names, but he knew that every one of them had gone into battle with the best training the British Commonwealth Air Training Program could give them.

"Come on, Ballantyne, get us out of this spin."

After a slow start, BCATP was finally running at full tilt. A dozen Service Flying Training Schools were operational and Noorduyn Aviation in Montreal was churning out new Harvards at a rate of three a day. The RCAF even had a school for flight instructors — many of them combat veterans who had earned a quieter posting — to keep the training schools well staffed.

The RAF was pleased, or, at least, less displeased. In fact, McMullen was expecting a visit from a contingent of RAF Air Staff any day now. Training continued apace, though everyone had put an extra measure of spit and polish into making themselves and Camp Borden presentable for inspection.

Except Shirley. Shipshape was his natural state, but even if it hadn't been, he would not have put in any special effort. All week, he had spent his off-duty hours in front of the fireplace in the officer's mess, the volume of Dickinson open on his lap.

Dickinson had little enough in common with Whitman. Everything in her world was so small — even the poems themselves — nothing at all like Whitman's boundless, yawping love for the vast, teeming world. Shirley had always thrilled at the sweep and freedom of that, but Dickinson hardly ever left her house. On a first reading of the new book, Shirley had felt a flare of anger that he didn't quite know how to place. On a second, he recognized it as defensiveness against an observer who seemed to see him in a way even Whitman had not. _I never hear the word "Escape" w_ _ithout a quicker blood . . ._

"What seems to be the problem, Ballantyne?" Shirley barked, annoyed that they were still in a spin.

"Sir, I don't . . ."

A sudden bang rattled the aircraft hard enough to toss Shirley against his harness. Within seconds, a column of acrid, black smoke was pouring from the front of the plane, enveloping the canopy in an impenetrable cloud.

 _Shit._

"Sir . . ."

"I'm taking over the controls, Ballantyne," Shirley said. "Prepare to deploy your parachute."

The commands were clipped and precise, even as Shirley consciously regulated his own breathing.

 _Take a slow breath._

 _Throttle down to idle._

 _Ailerons to neutral._

 _Rudder hard over left . . . more . . . more . . ._

The Harvard bucked and groaned as Shirley fought to bring it under control. A spin meant that one wing had stalled more than the other, and the trick to pulling out of it was to equalize the wings. Easier said than done, especially when it had gone on as long as this spin had. The black cloud had subsided somewhat after the initial burst, but there was still enough smoke to make Shirley wonder whether he would be able to restart the engine even if he did manage to ease the plane back to equilibrium.

Ballantyne said something over the intercom, but it came to Shirley as the garbled mutterings of some underwater creature. Was the kid panicking or was it only the intercom on the fritz?

"Stay where you are," Shirley said, not sure whether Ballantyne could hear him. "I'm going to bring us out of it now."

In a spin, with the ground rushing up to meet you and the empty-bellied sensation of falling, it was counterintuitive to lean in. The primitive part of the human brain screamed _UP UP UP_ and _BACK BACK BACK_ , but an airplane wasn't human. If you wanted to break a spin like this, you had to tell that blundering, earthbound animal-brain to shut the hell up so you could think like a machine. The important thing was to get the wings equal, even if that meant flying straight down toward the ground.

Another slow breath. In the next second, they'd find out whether they'd be bringing this Harvard home to Borden or bailing out over the Ontario countryside.

 _Sharp and fast._

Shirley jammed the control column forward with his whole strength, ignoring the jumbled exclamations from the intercom.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Now they were screaming toward the earth, aimed directly downward. Terrifying. But both wings were equal.

"Hang on, Ballantyne," Shirley said, blinking sweat out of his eyes. If this didn't work . . .

The engine did not respond on the first try. Nor the second.

Shirley swore fluently under his breath. He was on the point of ordering Ballantyne to bail, but wanted just one more try. He opened the throttle once more, gritting his teeth as it rattled, spluttered, and then roared back to life.

 _Not out of this yet._

Clenching in concentration, Shirley pulled the Harvard into a gentle, swooping curve, bottoming out of the dive at an altitude where you could count the individual sheets on clotheslines below. Ballantyne whooped triumphantly from the front, no intercom necessary to hear that. Shirley was not quite ready to join him. After all, he still had to put this kite down somewhere safe, and who knew where they were or when the engine might go again.

Luckily, the gods of aviation were sated. Scanning the ground for a likely forced-landing site, Shirley was astonished to find the broad, familiar runway of Camp Borden not two miles distant. Perhaps there would be no need for an emergency landing in some unpredictable field or marsh; he could just bring the damaged kite home to Sgt. Dixon, who would no doubt have some choice words of his own.

Not that it would be easy to land this heap. The Harvard was limping more than it was flying, and Shirley was having an awful time controlling it. It wasn't just the engine either; if he had to guess, the rudder hadn't much liked that rough treatment. Add in the obscuring smoke and it was going to be a landing to remember.

"Brace yourself," Shirley warned Ballantyne.

They were still losing altitude, slipping, slipping, slipping. Worse, the controls were fighting Shirley as hard as he was fighting back. If he could get this thing on a proper heading, it would be a goddamn miracle.

Knowing that he wouldn't be able to circle for a second approach, Shirley wrestled the Harvard into alignment with Camp Borden's main runway. Certainly they must be a sight to behold, trailing smoke and shuddering like a leaf. Well, hopefully Dixon would have the sense to greet them with fire extinguishers.

Slowly, carefully, Shirley eased the Harvard toward the ground. The plane growled and spat and threw off enough black smoke to make a tire fire envious, blocking the view as completely as any instrument hood.

 _If Gil can put this thing down on instruments, you can, too._

A damn sight harder than taking off by instruments, that was for sure. On takeoff, you could lift and lift until you lifted free, but coming down, the unforgiving ground stayed exactly where it was. Cut the throttle too early and you'd make a lovely crater.

 _Easy now._

When the landing gear slammed into the ground, Shirley's teeth knocked together and his shoulders wrenched against the harness again. Still, he had brought the Harvard safely home to solid ground with only a few bruises and a sweat-drenched flightsuit for souvenir.

The moment they rolled to a stop, Shirley and Ballantyne scrambled out of the smoking aircraft, jumping the last few feet to the runway. They landed to the roar of fire extinguishers and hearty cheers from a crowd of cadets and instructors who had obviously watched the whole thing. Men in battle-dress and flight jackets pressed in, clapping Shirley on the sore shoulder and shouting their admiration.

"Wizard flying, sir!"

"The longest spin I've ever seen!"

"That smoke!"

When Shirley emerged from the press, he found himself standing before a grinning McMullen, who was flanked by two RAF Air Staff officers in sharp wool and gold braid. Shirley ran a sleeve over his face in an attempt to sponge away the worst of the sweat, then saluted.

"Hell of a landing, Blythe, hell of a landing," McMullen beamed, reaching out to pump Shirley's hand. "Good of you to put on such a show for our guests."

Shirley's heart was still tripping along at an unsustainable speed, but his voice was inflected with a smile. "All in a day's work, sir."

McMullen could barely keep a lid on his delight as he gestured to his two companions. The older man, straight-backed and jowly with dark brows over shrewd blue eyes, wore the wide sleeve-stripes and single star of an Air Commodore. The younger, a Group Captain according to his many-striped sleeves, was thin, straw-haired, and snaggletoothed, radiating good cheer and enthusiasm.

"Squadron Leader Blythe," McMullen said in official tones, "Allow me to introduce you to Air Commodore Houghton and Group Captain Lloyd. They're inspecting all the training schools."

"Marvelous flying!" Lloyd grinned as he pumped the hand Shirley had attempted to dry on his damp battle-dress blouse. "You may be just the man they're looking for!"

"That was certainly most impressive, Blythe," Houghton agreed in an accent that made Shirley suspect that _Air Commodore_ might not be the man's only title. "McMullen informs us that you were a top-10 ace in the Great War?"

Shirley grimaced. "That's top-10 for Canada, sir, not the whole RAF."

"Indeed. Tell me, how old are you, Blythe?"

"Ah . . ." Shirley had to think a moment. "I was 42 earlier this month, sir."

"I see." Houghton gave Shirley an unabashedly appraising look up and down. Satisfied that he had found whatever it was he was looking for, he gave a curt nod to McMullen.

"Go get yourself cleaned up, Blythe," McMullen said, face split with glee. "Then come 'round to my office, alright?"

"Yes, sir." Shirley didn't know what all this was about, but he was certainly glad to be excused to the privacy of his quarters to puke in peace. He was even grateful for Davenport, who had laid out fresh towels and immaculate service dress, right down to the socks. Standing in the shower, leaning against the tile as smoke and sweat ran away down the drain, he wondered what the hell Group Captain Lloyd had meant by "they" and why anyone might be looking for someone who knew how to crash in style.

*/*/*

When Shirley reported to McMullen's office, he found the three senior officers conferring over a file spread open on the desk. For once, it was the only file in sight, McMullen having evidently made an effort to impress by getting his own house in order.

"Come in, Blythe, come in," McMullen said, waving Shirley toward one of the armchairs and taking the other for himself. It seemed that rank had the privilege of the desk chair, with Air Commodore Houghton settling into McMullen's usual seat while Lloyd perched impishly on the window sill. All three of them looked enormously pleased in a way that made Shirley wonder whether he was about to be inducted into some sort of secret fraternity or devoured.

Houghton rapped a knuckle on the open file. "Wing Commander McMullen has been so kind as to provide us with your file," he said. "Most impressive, I do say."

"Thank you, sir."

"Your DFC citation alone is quite a thrilling read."

Shirley wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so he stuck with, "Yes, sir."

"Excellent flying skills, a sterling record as an instructor — tell me, Blythe, why aren't you commanding your own SFTS already? This is just the sort of file BCATP looks for in a commanding officer."

Shirley relaxed a little. If they were just going to offer him a command, that was easy enough to turn down.

"I'm satisfied with my current position, sir," he said. "Forgive me, but I much prefer flying to paperwork."

"Yes," Houghton said slowly. "McMullen has already told us you have turned down opportunities for advancement in the past. Happier in a kite than in a meeting, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I can't say I blame you, Blythe. Still, a man of your abilities may be . . . _underemployed_ in your current capacity, don't you think?"

Shirley bristled slightly at this. Hadn't he just proven that he was right where he needed to be?

"Training is very useful work, sir," he said slowly, feeling that it was a foolish thing to say to an Air Staff officer whose job was to oversee the training program.

"Of course it is, Blythe. And your dedication is much appreciated. But BCATP is fully operational now. We have plenty of excellent flight instructors."

"Yes, sir," Shirley agreed, feeling wholly adrift. What was the man getting at?

"Allow me to ask you a few questions," Houghton said, making it an order rather than a request. "You are fully qualified to fly advanced aircraft and have instructed pilots in various specialized techniques, including night flying, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are a decorated RAF veteran and a current RCAF officer who has rejected promotions that might ground you, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"You can fly the hell out of one of those mulish Harvards, correct?"

"I suppose so," Shirley said, unsure where all this was heading.

"You are unmarried and have no children, correct?"

Just what in hell did that have to do with flying? Shirley ran his thumb in a circle over his closed fist. "Yes, sir."

Houghton nodded, nearly satisfied. "One last thing, Blythe: How is your French?"

 _French?_

"I studied French in college, sir," Shirley said, bewildered. "I suppose I can read it alright, but I can't honestly say that I speak it."

Houghton looked over his shoulder at a grinning Lloyd. "You owe me a drink, Ned," he drawled. "He's _not_ completely perfect."

"Close enough!" said Lloyd, evidently not much displeased at having lost a bet that Shirley could not begin to fathom.

Shirley was reluctant to ask, but he was beginning to grow frustrated. Turning to McMullen, he raised his brows in silent appeal.

"See here now, Blythe," McMullen said. "The RAF has a proposition for you."

"Indeed," Air Commodore Houghton confirmed. "What would you say, Squadron Leader Blythe, if I told you that one of our many tasks on this tour is to identify talent for a very special posting with the RAF?"

 _Special?_

"I would ask what sort of posting, sir."

"And I do wish that I could tell you. But the truth is that specific details are unavailable to men of my humble rank and station."

Unavailable to an Air Commodore? What was the man playing at?

Houghton fixed Shirley with a frank blue gaze. "All I can say is this: I have been ordered to look for men of exactly your description for a special duties posting much more sensitive than BCATP training. It requires excellent flying skills, extreme discretion, and . . . ideally . . . at least a smattering of French."

If they wanted men who spoke French, did that mean . . .

"You want to send me to the front lines?" Shirley asked, mouth gone dry.

The Air Commodore's smirk was a subtle thing, conveying certainty without committing to it in any incriminating way. "Rather behind them, I suspect."

Behind the lines? Special duties? It sounded dangerous and ill-advised and . . . important.

"Come now, Blythe, we can't have a man of your substantial abilities doing nothing but routine wings tests day in and day out. Leave that to the others."

"It's valuable work, sir," Shirley objected. "We're sending thousands of pilots to defend Britain."

Houghton leaned across the desk, half threatening, half conspiratorial.

"We'll never win this war by hanging back," he said. "There's no defense like an offense."

Houghton wasn't wrong. With summer coming, the Nazis would mount a major operation somewhere, perhaps even the long-rumored invasion of England. The blow could fall any day and then what? A year ago, the Nazis had pummeled Holland, Belgium, and France into submission with terrifying speed. If they could land that same punch across the Channel, could Britain withstand the blow? They would fight to the last and the loss of life — military and civilian alike — would be staggering. Anything that could be done to disrupt German plans would save untold numbers of lives. That wasn't hyperbole; it was just mathematics.

Shirley looked to McMullen, unsure if he would rather his friend urge him to go or forbid it.

"It's a wrench to let you go, Blythe," McMullen said, swishing his mustache, "but it's a job that needs doing and you're the right man for it."

"What do you think, Blythe?" Houghton asked.

 _I think Carl's going to have kittens._

"When do I leave, sir?"


	47. In the Dark (Reprise)

Content warning: brief suicidal thoughts

* * *

 **In the Dark (Reprise)**

* * *

April 1941

* * *

 ** _Pennant:_**

 _Come up here, dear little child,  
_ _To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless light._

 _ **Child:**_

 _Father what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?  
_ _And what does it say to me all the while?_

 _ **Father:**_

 _Nothing my babe you see in the sky,  
_ _And nothing at all to you it says . . ._

 _-_ Walt Whitman, "Song of the Banner at Daybreak"

* * *

By the time Shirley arrived home for his last leave before shipping out, Carl had composed himself. The letter had landed in his hand like an anvil — _I am taking a special duties post in England_ — but it wasn't unexpected. What had Shirley said at Christmas? _I would do it, you know . . . if the maths were ever that good . ._. Truthfully, it was a surprise that it had taken this long.

Carl had spent a very bad evening under the pear trees, but he was calmer when he drove down to the Glen station the next afternoon. He was late on purpose, so that Shirley was whittling under a nearby oak when he arrived, a twig bare and stripped under the knife in his hand. Neither spoke as the tall blue form folded into the passenger seat, thumb strumming the edge of the duffel bag as they rumbled away toward the house.

"Kit . . ."

Carl held up a hand for silence. "Is there anything I can do to stop you?"

"I guess not."

"Then I don't want to fight about it to no purpose."

What was the sense in struggling against a rip current when you were already in it? You could spend your whole strength against the implacable sea and never progress an inch, or you could stay calm and let it carry you along until the you were through the worst, battered and gasping, but still alive.

"This isn't about you," Shirley muttered.

The truck lurched to an inelegant stop in the middle of the road as Carl applied the break with more decision than grace. Shirley's wince at the grinding screech was oddly satisfying.

Carl swiveled round until he could look at Shirley directly.

"That is abundantly clear."

Shirley had the good sense not to offer a retort, waiting for Carl to start back down the road and speak when he was ready. They rattled away from the village, past the turn-offs for the Upper Glen and Harbour Head, down the quiet, grass-sprouted road that led to Lowbridge.

Eventually, Carl sighed. "You're here for two weeks?"

"Less a day for travel to Kingsport."

"Any last requests?"

"I'd settle for a _hello_."

Brakes again, squealing with a rasping shudder almost as loud as the gritting of Shirley's teeth. "Maybe I could give you some driving lessons while I'm here . . ." he muttered.

Carl turned again. "Hello."

"Hi."

It was awfully good to see him. Even like this, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably under the crisp blue uniform Carl wanted to hate. Two weeks? And then . . .

"We're going home to change," Carl said, gruff enough to cover the hitch in his voice.

"Change?"

"You need a mac. Sweater."

"I'm not really supposed to be seen out of uniform . . ."

"Then we'll make sure no one sees you."

Shirley opened his mouth, but closed it again. Good.

Carl turned back to the wheel and set the truck in motion again, keeping his eye resolutely on the road. Shirley remained silent long enough that conscience began to prick. Only two weeks, and then off to whatever harebrained, perilous, accursed . . . what in hell did _special duties_ mean, anyway? Nothing good.

With a sigh, Carl fished in his jacket pocket, coming up with a small box wrapped in plain brown paper. He hadn't had the heart for anything more festive.

"What's this?" Shirley asked when Carl tossed it into his lap.

"Birthday present."

"For me?"

"Anyone else here have a birthday recently?"

The paper crackled as Shirley slid the box free; the cardboard top gave a tiny pop as it flexed open.

It had always been difficult to buy gifts for Shirley. Even moreso now that he couldn't really bring much of anything wherever he was going. Something useful, then. A sleek silver lighter, embellished with a fan of crisp lines radiating like a sun translated into cool, moonlit shimmer.

"It's beautiful," Shirley said quietly.

"It's useful."

"It's beautiful _and_ useful."

"Yeah, well. You shouldn't smoke so much."

A patch of warmth bloomed on Carl's passenger-side thigh, the light pressure of Shirley's hand restrained but not timid.

"Thanks. It's perfect."

Carl didn't stop the truck again. Instead, he dropped one hand from the wheel to cover Shirley's, pressing it firmly in place.

*/*/*

They took to the sea, of course. Oh, they would return with a few days to spare for other people, but not just now. For ten days, the _Sweet Flag_ roamed from Cape Breton to the Gaspé Peninsula and east to Channel-Port aux Basques on the coast of Newfoundland. Muggins chased seagulls along the shale beaches of Anticosti Island and whined in protest when she was confined to quarters at Rocher aux Oiseaux.

"That's quite a climb," Shirley said, eyeing the slippery gangway that led to the Jubinville's lighthouse at the top of the cliffs.

"You're scared of heights now?" Carl called over his shoulder.

The Jubinvilles were delighted to see Carl and to meet his deckhand. Even more delighted when Shirley addressed them in simple, halting French, gone rusty since his days running rum from St. Pierre.

He spoke French of the "pardon my" sort when Carl took him out to the cliffs and showed him how to rig up a safety harness to move over the shit-slick, wave-dashed rocks.

"This is what you do out here?" Shirley shouted over the roiling surf. " _Alone?_ "

Carl shrugged as he tested the tension of his lifeline. "Sure. What did you think I do?"

"Watch birds."

"I do. Up close."

"Have you ever . . . fallen in?"

"Yes."

" _Carl!_ "

"What? That's why I have the harness."

"It's dangerous!"

"Are you coming or not?"

They had to hunt a long time, paying out their lifelines to the limit, climbing one cliff and another to search and search the new-laid herring gull nests. By the time they found what Carl was looking for, they were both covered in filth, sweat-plastered even in the whipping sea-wind.

"So it has a lot of eggs?" Shirley asked, peering dubiously at the superclutch in question.

Carl smiled as he banded the nesting gull. "Six instead of three."

"And that means . . . two females?"

"Usually."

"How can you tell?"

Carl brandished his calipers as if that were any proper answer.

*/*/*

On the tenth night, they found a little island off the southern coast of Newfoundland and went ashore. The Magdalens were too busy these days, what with the RCAF landing reconnaissance planes along the sandy strips. There hadn't been reports of U-boats in the area yet, it didn't hurt to be vigilant. The merchant vessels that sailed up the St. Lawrence from the interior were currently keeping Britain fed with good Canadian wheat, and it was only a matter of time before the wolfpacks noticed the soft underbelly of the lightly-defended Gulf. So the _Sweet Flag_ made for Newfoundland, with its granite-gray crags smiling their cold, toothy smiles as iceberg season approached.

"Maybe we should stay onboard with Mugsy tonight," Shirley said, eyeing the broken shore. "It's cold."

"I need rocks."

"You need rocks?"

"Something steady underfoot," Carl said, knowing full well that even the rock shore was temporary. There was a vast scale beyond human experience, in which a single life or a single war or a single species was nothing more than the futile _struggle of ants in the gleam of a million million suns_.* Carl knew ants. They had triumphs and sorrows, animosities and loves, as people did. He had always taken that commonality as a sign that their struggle was not — could not be — futile. But perhaps it was the other way around.

There were no lights, not even stars penetrating the cloud cover of a lowering sky. A sandy escarpment and hasty driftwood lean-to provided shelter from the biting wind, though they did nothing whatever to guard against the frigidity of the spring night.

"Get in," Shirley said, holding the bedroll open.

Carl did not answer. He stood at the cusp of the lapping Atlantic, letting the sea wind scour his bare flesh in the failing twilight. If he stood this way long enough, exposed on the darkening shore, he would eventually reach equilibrium with it. The cold would creep in along his edges, turning his skin cool and hard, conquering his extremities before it reached anything vital. His body would fight back for a while, heart pumping warm blood, brain slowing to conserve energy, but they couldn't hold out forever. How long would it take to blend into the lifeless shore? Hours? Days? Much faster if he stepped into the water.

"Hey," Shirley said, the warmth of his chest and arms a jolt against Carl's already cooling back. "Come on."

The last lingering grayness yielded to a dark so flat and black that an eye open or closed or gone made no difference

"You're freezing," Shirley said, shivering a bit himself as he pulled the bedroll close around them and added wool blankets over the top. Heavy, redolent of lanolin and cedar, they bore Carl down into the ground until the soft, firm pressure of the sand below and the soft, firm pressure of the blankets above offered a different sort of equilibrium.

Shirley reached to gather him in to his oven-warm body, but Carl turned over instead, knees to knees at odd angles. Even breathing one another's breath, it was too dark to see faces, so Carl laid a still-cool hand to Shirley's cheek instead, needing some way to measure him.

How little flesh covered the human jaw. Was there really only an eighth of an inch between smiling face and grinning skull?

"Is your new post really in England?" he asked.

A longish breath and a fluttering of the pulse under Shirley's ear.

"What makes you think it isn't?"

"You spoke French to the Jubinvilles."

"Well, they speak French."

"How considerate of you."

Shirley's throat bobbed under Carl's fingers. Here, too, life was so poorly guarded. A single cut just there or a swift blow there, and it would be over in moments.

"The base is in England," Shirley said half-apologetically.

"And the French is for cocktail parties, I assume."

Shirley reached to cover Carl's hip with an impossibly warm hand, but Carl twitched away, unwilling to be placated.

"You won't tell me anything more than that?"

"That's all I know."

"You promised to always tell me more than half."

"I don't know that much myself."

Carl dropped his hand, retreating into the inky black embrace of the directionless void. He might have been utterly alone in a limitless universe if not for the radiating heat that warmed his face like the star-side of a lonely planet.

"You know that it's dangerous," he said. "That you . . . that you could . . ."

"That I could die?"

You weren't supposed to say things like that aloud. They conjured gruesome, ghastly, _groveling_ things from their lairs to find you, even in the featureless dark. A _chill went gallopading up and down Carl's spine_ and his shiver had nothing to do with the damp or the wind or the glacial Newfoundland shore.

Suddenly, a small spot seared in the center of Carl's chest. For a confused moment, he thought that perhaps he had been shot, but no, being shot felt like a punch, not a burn. This was a single, round point of heat. A fingertip.

This time, Carl did not move away. One fingertip became two, then five, then a whole searing palm pressed to his chest.

Carl placed his own hand over the knuckles and peeled the hand away, not in refusal, but to bring the fingers to his lips and kiss each glowing tip. There was a sharp intake of breath when he sucked one into his mouth, drawing its ember in, caressing and coaxing until the spark caught and spread and his fear began to melt under its borrowed heat.

They had the shorthand of all lifelong partners, in which gesture and touch had mellowed into a duet of request and response. A particular posture or the brush of lips or palms recalled other touches innumerable, invoking a terrain of intimacy mapped over a thousand nights and a thousand more. Riding a current larger than either of them, they could nonetheless steer, branching off at this oft-traveled fork or another, sometimes following meandering streams to tranquil lagoons, other times seeking out the thrilling rush and roar of rapids.

This was not like that.

There had been a rupture somewhere atop some distant mountain that had smoked and belched at a safe distance for a long time, but now the innards of the earth were creeping implacably down its slope, obliterating the landmarks of the familiar landscape, remaking the very rocks.

Fumbling, they knocked elbows and clashed teeth, misjudging distances they had measured countless times before. Mere darkness was no explanation; they'd always made their own light. Not tonight. An off-target kiss left Carl apologizing for bashing Shirley's nose; the bedroll tangling around their feet sent Shirley crashing too hard onto Carl's chest.

"Oof!" Carl grunted, breath rushing out in a reproach.

"Sorry!"

Under other circumstances, it might have been funny. As it was, the apology held a note of panic.

"Stop," Carl gasped. "Just stop."

Shirley obeyed as best he could, though his shuddering breath defied all orders. "I'm sorry," he panted. "Sorry. Are you alright?"

"Shhhh."

Carl shut his eye against a stinging tear, willing himself still, ordering each breath _in_ and _out_ , _in_ and _out_ through his constricted throat until they remembered how to do it of their own accord. They would not end this way, failed and flailing, _they would not_.

"Shhhh," he repeated.

They had said goodbye before — too often, it seemed — but always fluently. Never like this. He could go to pieces later, in the blank, yawning future, but not now.

Slowly, deliberately, Carl skimmed palms over tense arms and heaving shoulders and quivering throat until he held Shirley's face firmly between his hands, a mutual anchor and a place to start over.

"Start here," he said, following his own train of thought as he pressed a gentle kiss to lips that frightened him with their reticence.

"I don't know if I can," Shirley whispered, though they were close enough that Carl felt the shape of the words better than he could hear them.

"You don't know if you can kiss me?"

"Without bloodying your lip this time?"

"My lip's fine," Carl said, demonstrating by extending it across the infinitesimal interval. "Check for yourself."

Coaxing with tiny touches, he drew Shirley into a soft, unhurried kiss that belonged to another place and time. Maybe to Kingsport, when four years had seemed like a never-ending cornucopia. Maybe to Cuba, when they had thumbed their noses at the mundane world. Maybe to some unimaginable future, when young people would marvel that the world had ever been so foolish.

The kiss lingered and deepened. What was darkness, after all, against pliant lips and audible pulse and the enveloping smell of fresh-baked bread stronger than the smell of birds? Some toothed cog slid back into place and set the laws of their tiny universe purring along once more.

"Doing fine so far," Carl sighed when biology demanded an opportunity to breathe.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, cloistered together under the smothering weight of the blankets and the irresolvable dark and the relentless siss of the sea. With every caress, they carved comfort out of the blankness, kindling coals against the cold. Hands might roam and hips rise to meet them, but their lips did not wander tonight, the fragile juncture a common center stabilizing their orbits. No danger of sliding toward clammy equilibrium now, not with two clasped together and blazing so brightly they might have warned ships at sea.

Sometime later, Carl fixed his fingers in Shirley's hair, holding him still against his shoulder as he dozed. How many lovers had lain this way down through the centuries and unfathomable millennia? How many had swallowed their tongues — _no, don't go, I need you too much_ — and affixed a dishonest smile as they bid a last farewell? This wouldn't be the last war, either, and there would be another million million goodbyes, forever and ever until the sea wore the rock shore away to nothing.

"There's a poem like this, I think."

"Huh? What?"

"A poem," Carl repeated, groping for a title or a line and coming up empty. "One of yours."

"Mine?"

"Your Whitman. There's a flag or a banner or something beckoning a boy off to war and the father is trying to stop him from going . . . _beckoning with a long finger_ . . . I can't remember exactly."

" _Come up here, dear little child_ ," Shirley whispered thickly, " _to fly in the clouds and winds with me and play with the measureless light_. I didn't know that you knew that one."

"Well, I don't have your terrifying memory for it. I don't suppose that begging kept the boy at home, did it?"

A puff of breath against his collarbone: "No."

"Then I'll just ask you for a promise."

"Anything."

"Hear it first," Carl said, brushing fingers along the close-cropped hair. "You keep choosing to leave. I know you feel like you have to go, but it's been your choice every time. I know you'll do what you have to do over there, and I know that might mean that . . . that you won't be coming back. But promise me . . . if you ever _do_ have a choice in the matter, promise that you'll choose to come home in the end."

"I'll come home, Kit."

Carl grimaced. "You can't promise that. But if you have a choice . . ."

"Yes," Shirley interrupted. "I promise."

He said it like he meant it, and Carl had no doubt that he did, or at least that he wanted to.

There was a rustling movement and Shirley pulled away, letting a long finger of cold air rush in between them as he rummaged for something among his clothes. He was back in a moment, though, clicking the silver lighter into brilliant flame. Carl winced at the sudden brightness and then again at the way the flickering fire threw skull-shadows across Shirley's face.

"I need a promise, too."

"Anything."

Shirley found his hand, gripped it, held fast. "You have to take care of yourself. No more falling into the sea. I'm coming home, and when I do, I want to find you here in one piece. Can you do that?"

Carl licked his lips. If it were still dark, he might have hidden, but Shirley had never liked to say goodbye in the dark.

"Yes," he said. "I promise."

And he meant it, or at least wanted to.


	48. Mother and Dad are Invited to Tea

**Mother and Dad are Invited to Tea**

* * *

April 1941

* * *

 _Elysium is as far as to_  
 _The very nearest room,_  
 _If in that room a friend await_  
 _Felicity or doom._  
 _What fortitude the soul contains,_  
 _That it can so endure_  
 _The accent of a coming foot,_  
 _The opening of a door!_

\- Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

* * *

They came in like a herd of elephants, front door clattering, Muggins scrunching the hall carpet with her overwrought scrabbling, boots clunking to the floor where they were dropped. Shirley murmured something audible only as a low rumble and Carl laughed. That was good. Very good. Una had feared quiet.

"Hi, Una," Carl said, tripping over Muggins as they crossed the kitchen threshold together. He bent to kiss her cheek, wreathing her in good, clean scents of sweat and sea breeze, with the acrid bird stink only faintly discernible underneath. "Sorry we're late."

"I wasn't counting hours," she said, though the chime of the mantel clock chose that very moment to register an objection.

Shirley hung back in the doorway, cradling a newspaper-swathed bundle in the crook of his arm, only stepping into the sun-yellow kitchen when Una spread her arms in welcome.

"Hi," he said, returning her embrace with his unburdened arm.

"Shirley," she said, holding him close despite the state of his sea clothes. "It's so good to see you."

"We brought you something," he said when he released her, holding out the damp newspaper bundle — BRITISH CAPITAL HAS HEAVIEST AIR RAID OF WAR — quite distinctively fragrant in its own right.

"You brought me . . . a fish?"

"Carl says you've been eating more meat lately. Is fish meat?"

"It's a very impressive striped bass," Carl said as he rummaged in the cookie jar. "Shirley caught it just out past the mouth of the harbour. It's barely dead."

Una took the fish from Shirley and felt a rebellious twitch at the corner of her mouth. "I didn't know you knew how to fish," she said mildly.

Carl got his sleeve up just in time to keep a mouthful of crumbs from spraying across half the kitchen.

"And I didn't know you knew how to tell a joke," said Shirley, twinkling at her fondly.

"You'd better watch out for her," Carl warned. "She's been in awfully high spirits lately."

Una ignored this provocation, setting the fish amid the half-chopped, half-peeled vegetables on the table. She crossed the kitchen to the telephone to retrieve a small stack of messages scribbled on violet notepaper.

"Faith and Jem have organized a supper at Ingleside tomorrow night. Nan and Jerry and the girls are coming out from Charlottetown, but not Di, I'm afraid."

"Don't worry," Shirley said. "I was planning on calling her tonight and asking if we can stay over at Aster House on Friday before I have to report to the ship."

"You're going to Kingsport, too?" Una asked her brother.

"Just for a couple of days."

She peered at Carl, noting the purple shadow of more than one sleepless night under his eye, deeper than the smile he wore. Di would be able to sympathize, at least.

Una nodded, then turned to Shirley, hesitating briefly. "There's also . . . your mother called. She wants you to come down to their house tomorrow afternoon for tea before the supper."

Una had been awfully surprised when Mrs. Blythe had called, trying to recall whether it was the first time and concluding that it must be. Officially, neither Mrs. Blythe nor Dr. Blythe acknowledged this house, not even in a medical context. Certainly they had never darkened its door.

"I don't like being summoned by them," Shirley grumbled. "I'll see them at Ingleside with the rest."

"Wait," Carl said, laying a pacifying hand on Shirley's arm. "They just want to see you. What if . . . could you invite them here?"

"Here?"

"Yes," Carl nodded earnestly. "Invite them for tea. Here. Let them come to you."

"Do you think they would?"

Carl shrugged. "Call and ask them."

"I don't know . . ." Shirley pressed his lips into a thin line, ruminating. "What if they're horrible?"

"Then you can have the satisfaction of kicking them out."

Shirley did not seem wholly convinced by this prospect, though he also had not dismissed the idea outright. Una had already begun taking mental inventory of the pantry. She had spent the afternoon baking for tomorrow's supper and could certainly spare a pie, besides which there were still plenty of pear preserves . . .

"Is it alright with you, Una?" Shirley asked. "If my parents come here?"

"Of course," she answered, surprised he even felt the need to ask.

Shirley gave a tiny groan of protest, but if he had been looking to Una to sink the idea by withholding hospitality, he was truly grasping at the breeze. Carl gave him a tiny nudge toward the telephone; Shirley handled the receiver as if it might bite him. The whir of the dial and then . . .

"Hello, Mum. It's Shirley . . . You, too . . . Yes, I'm back. I'll be here all day tomorrow and leave for Kingsport on Friday . . . Listen, I don't think I can come down to your house tomorrow afternoon, but I was wondering if you and Dad wanted to come here instead . . . No, I'm not at the hangar. I'm at Carl and Una's house . . . Yes, I'm staying here . . . Yes . . . Do you know where it is? On the Lowbridge Road? . . . Yes . . . Say three o'clock? . . . Alright, I'll see you tomorrow . . . You too, Mum. 'Bye."

Carl's eyebrows had inched up toward his hairline with each exchange. He blinked solemnly at Una, who could only shrug.

When Shirley turned back into the sunny kitchen, he seemed as bemused as either of them.

"I suppose I ought to bake something," he said.

Carl guffawed in disbelief. "What does one bake for the prodigal parents?"

Una took an extra apron from the peg behind the door and, smiling, held it out at arm's length.

"No fatted calf in this house, I'm afraid," she said. "But there's some rhubarb in the garden."

* * *

"Should we take down the pictures?" Carl was standing by the mantel, fretting with a framed snapshot of the two of them on a Caribbean beach.

Shirley took the frame from his hand and set it back in its place. That had been the day Carl had met the dolphin in the turquoise shallows near Havana; just look at his grin.

"It was your idea to invite them here," he said. "Now you don't want them to actually see the place?"

"I just want them to be comfortable."

Shirley took Carl's tweed-jacketed shoulders in both hands and planted a kiss on his forehead, just where the worry lines were deepest.

"That's up to them, not you. Don't put anything away."

Carl nodded, but continued to fiddle with knick-knacks as Shirley went to check on things in the kitchen. He and Una had spent an hour in companionable quiet over the mixing bowls, assembling a rhubarb crumble that no one was likely to taste. By way of apology, Shirley had revealed that all Susan's rhubarb creations contained an unrecorded dram of ginger ale; Una had promised to tell Cecilia to make a note.

"Can I help at all?" he asked, watching Una fill the kettle.

"No," she said. "I wouldn't want you putting your uniform at risk."

After a week and a half at sea in a mac and fisherman's sweater, it felt good to be back in service dress. Shirley could hardly admit as much to Carl, who had winced to see him all brushed and polished, but the truth was that he felt better able to meet his parents dressed this way. They might think of him as a perpetual infant, but that didn't mean he had to feel like one.

A knock at the front door sent Muggins careening down the hall, barking her head off.

"Do you want me to get it?" Una asked.

Shirley adjusted his cuffs and rolled his shoulders under the tunic. "No. I'll be fine."

*/*/*

"What a lovely room," Mother said, surveying the frame-crowded mantel and overstuffed bookcase from her perch on the edge of the sofa. "Those orange and green geese are particularly striking."

"They're Carl's," Una said, offering a tray of teacups to both of Shirley's parents.

It really was a talent, Shirley thought, to deflect attention from oneself so skillfully. Una Meredith had the knack of always being present but never taking up any space, not even conversationally. See how she redirected Mother toward Carl in two words, refusing to step out of the background herself? Masterful.

"Yes," Carl was saying. "My friend Nellie Meijer drew them. She's a wonderful illustrator. She draws for encyclopedias these days — plants, birds, insects . . ."

Dad nodded along, over-expressing interest. "Does she work with you at the Department of Fisheries?"

"No," Carl said, taking a cup. "We were friends at Redmond. She lives in Curaçao now, drawing from life. The geese are Orinocos, from the Orinoco River in South America."

"Oh," Mother said pleasantly. "Well, they're lovely."

Una disappeared into the kitchen with the tray and conversation lapsed. Shirley looked across the room to see Carl motioning for him to say something — anything — to his parents. Something . . . anything . . .

"Thank you for the toffee," Shirley blurted.

Mother and Dad swiveled their attention and Shirley was very glad of his uniform.

"Did you like it?" Mother asked, gray eyes wide and hopeful.

"Yes. It was very good. Sorry, I meant to send a thank you, but everything happened just after it arrived . . ."

Mother was shaking her head vigorously, smiling all the while. "Not at all, sweetheart. I'm just pleased that you liked it. I'll send more, if you like, when you're in England."

"The sugar rations in Britain are very tight," Dad said knowledgeably. "Meat, butter . . . they're even rationing jam and tea over there."

"Yes," Shirley said. "It makes sense; the U-boats sink an awful lot of merchant ships, even in the convoys."

This was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say, given the ferocity with which Mother and Carl contended for the prize of ghastliest pallor. But it was true. Shirley had no doubt he'd be able to cadge whatever small luxuries he required with the help of good pay and a deck of cards, but parcels of candy would not go amiss in besieged Britain. He had a sudden memory of Ida Trumbull, the little girl in Wiltshire who had such an appetite for the fudge Susan used to send when he was training at Andover.

That seemed a safe enough topic, so Shirley told his parents what he remembered of the Trumbulls and what England was like in the last war. It seemed easier to talk about a war that was over and won than about one that was still underway. Carl nodded along encouragingly, supplying a small prompt here and there to keep the conversation alive. Dad asked about how aeroplanes had changed since then; Mother wondered if he knew anything about where he'd be stationed this time.

"All I know is that I'm supposed to report to RAF Newmarket. It's near Cambridge."

"Newmarket . . ." Dad mused. "I believe we may have gone there. When we went back in '28. The famous racecourses are there."

"Oh!" Mother perked up. "Yes, I remember. We met some of the jockeys and went walking out on the heath. I got in such a lot of trouble for renaming the horses."

"Renaming?" Carl asked, intrigued.

"They had such silly names," Mother said, relaxing into the telling. "There was a beautiful bay mare named _Scuttle_ , of all things. Scuttle! That wasn't her right name at all! She should have been a Lady Arabella or a Sweet Afton, definitely _not_ a Scuttle!"

Dad chuckled. "You nearly caused a brawl, Anne-girl, when you told the other spectators that her owner must be a fool to give her such an ugly name."

"Well how was I supposed to know that she belonged to King George?" Mother sniffed.*

Dad and Carl both laughed merrily, and even Shirley smiled. This was alright. It was going fine.

Una returned with a fresh pot of tea and plates of rhubarb crumble.

"This is wonderful, Una," Mother said after her first bite.

"Shirley made it," she said, vanishing as quickly as she had arrived.

"It tastes familiar," Dad said. "Just like . . ."

"It's Susan's recipe," Shirley confirmed.

"Oh. Well. It's very good."

They ate and chatted, finding other innocuous topics to fill the hour. Dad told an amusing story about being summoned to the Drew household for a birth, only to find that the patient was one of the the Percheron mares. Carl followed with a reenactment of Muggins's disagreement with a bull seal over control of a stretch of beach, which was resolved only when the incoming tide staked its own claim.

Mother smiled. "I remember the first time I saw a seal on the shore in Avonlea. It was one of those silver-specked harbor seals, all sparkling wet, and I was convinced that it must be a mermaid."

"A very loud mermaid!" Carl laughed.

"Not Tennyson's sort at all," Mother agreed. "Not a golden ringlet in sight."

Their shared merriment made a lovely tableau. This had been a good idea after all.

"There are other mermaid poems," Shirley said, to the evident surprise of all. " _I started early, took my dog / And visited the sea, / The mermaids in the basement / Came out to look at me_."

Carl and Dad nodded pleasantly, glad to have Shirley contributing to the conversation. But they did not know their Dickinson.

Mother did.

"That's one of my favorites," she said, gray eyes huge and shining. "Did you enjoy them?"

Shirley chose his words carefully. "I'm still thinking them over. But I read them."

Mother nodded, her timorous smile poised on the edge of hopefulness.

When it became apparent that neither would say more, Dad stuck in his oar for the sake of the dying conversation. "I'm not familiar with that poem. Not Tennyson, I presume?"

"No," Mother said. "It's Emily Dickinson."

"I've never read her," Dad said. "Is it all mermaids and fancy?"

Now it was Shirley's turn to chuckle. "Hardly. Though there are a few you might like. Dickinson on faith, for one."

"Faith?"

Shirley smiled at his mother, sharing a joke for what felt like the very first time. She was already giggling before he began to recite:

 _Faith is a fine invention  
_ _For Gentlemen who see!  
But Microscopes are prudent  
In an Emergency!_

Dad threw back his head and laughed at full volume. Carl, too, and yes, everything was alright.

When they had settled, Mother wiped a merry tear from the corner of her eye. "We're due up at Ingleside soon. The girls will be so glad to see you both, I'm sure. And Jem as well. He's been talking about it all week, hasn't he, Gilbert?"

"Yes. We're all glad you could come home, Shirley."

All four rose from their seats and there was a momentary pause as they tried to determine how best to take their leave when they were all headed to the same destination.

As usual, Dad rode to the rescue, extending a friendly hand to Carl. "Thank you for having us."

"You're welcome any time."

Carl looked across at Shirley, the slight elevation of an eyebrow inviting him to contribute to the farewell.

Shirley extended his own hand to Dad, then ventured a dry peck on Mother's cheek.

"Thank you for coming."

*/*/*

In the pressing dark of the wee sma's, when even April birds had not yet begun to twitter, Shirley slipped through the sitting room and toward the kitchen. He had expected to have it to himself, but the gentle flicker of candlelight announced Una's presence as clearly as the delicate fragrance of jasmine tea.

"I didn't know you could still get jasmine tea with the war on," Shirley said, taking a cup from the hutch and slipping into a chair.

"A Christmas gift," she said, pouring. "From Nellie."

Shirley would have thought that the war in China would have made jasmine tea impossible to get anywhere, but he did not press the point. The tea was floral and vaguely soapy, but it slipped down easily enough. Shirley watched Una as she sipped, the long black braid draped over the shoulder of her quilted dressing gown making her look half a child. Other women might cut their hair for fashion or convenience, but Una Meredith wore hers like a stained-glass allegory, belonging to no time and every time.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't realize you were awake."

She brushed the apology aside. "How is Carl?"

"Asleep."

"I'm glad to hear it. When I heard the door, I was expecting him."

Shirley doubted she had meant it as a reproach, but there was a little sting there just the same. How often did the Merediths share a predawn tea? More often than he'd like to know, probably.

Cecilia Meredith's blue china cup was warm in his hand, the curve of the pattern soothing in its familiarity.

"Una," he said stiffly, "I hate to ask anything of you. But . . . letters. Where I'm going, the censorship . . . I don't know how strict it will be. I was hoping you might give me permission to use your name."

"Of course."

"I know it's not fair. I'm sorry."

"It's perfectly alright," Una said, blue eyes dark in the unsteady candlelight.

"I'll write to you, too, of course."

She smiled her sweet, wistful smile. "You mustn't spend any of your time writing to me. Carl . . ." she paused, swirling the dregs of her tea before whispering, "he lives for your letters, Shirley. Don't ever stop writing."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

He seemed to be making an awful lot of vows these days. But this one wasn't really asking much, was it?

"I promise."

Una reached for the teapot and refilling both her cup and Shirley's.

"There's something else," Shirley said, hesitating. "I . . . um . . . I made out a will. I left the Piper Cub to Gil, and a little money for you and Di, but Carl gets the rest. I just . . . there wasn't really a good time to mention it. But someone should know that it exists. I sent a copy to the bank in Lowbridge."

"That's very sensible of you," Una murmured to her tea.

"I brought home some cash, as well. For . . . I don't know. Whatever you need."

He'd thought it all out. Tried to make things as easy as possible for them. _Provide_ was the word. It shouldn't be so hard to talk about.

"It isn't fair, is it?" Una said unexpectedly. "Not just the letters. Why does the military pay married men more when they do the same job as unmarried men?"

Shirley shrugged, relieved to be diverted to a simpler topic. "It's just the way things are."

"It isn't right. Would you be a better flight instructor if you had married one of those girls people were always throwing at you?"

How strange to find Una Meredith so bold. She had always felt injustice keenly, but Faith had been the one to speak out. Was it the Deaconess training, Shirley wondered, or only the confessional freedom of this witching hour? No, she had told a joke the other day as well. Something was different about her.

"No," he smirked. "Those poor girls. None of them ever had a chance."

"I think maybe one did."

"Oh?" Shirley asked, genuinely surprised. "Who?"

"Me."

"You?"

Una set down her cup and looked directly at him, all her usual diffidence burned off in the quivering candlelight. It cast the blue of her eyes and the sheen of her hair in liquid motion, though she did not move.

"If you had married me," she said evenly, "you could have lived here always. You never would have had to sneak out before dawn or hide your truck. No one would have ever asked why you hadn't found a nice girl yet. The RCAF would send an extra check every month and I'd be your next of kin in case anything happened to you. No one could have said anything against it."

"I feel bad enough about the letters, Una," Shirley muttered, dropping his gaze to place where his thumb ran along the side of his teacup. "I never would have asked you to do any of that."

Another wistful smile. Why was that always the word that came to mind when he thought of Una? _Wistful_. Mournful and dreamy and yearning. Other people moved through time in a straight line, getting older, changing. Una seemed preserved in a sort of perpetual longing, nostalgic for things that had never happened and could never be.

"I know you wouldn't," she said. "But I almost asked you once."

"You did?"

"Yes. It was a few years after you and Carl came home from Redmond. I made a plan. I was ready to propose."

"Why didn't you?"

"I asked Carl first. He was . . . not in favor."

No, he wouldn't have been. When was this, exactly, Shirley wondered. Before Wilkie's proposal? After? Either way, no, Carl would not have been in favor.

"I might have said yes."

"I think that's why he wouldn't let me ask."

What would it have been like to live here right from the start? To call this house his home without apology? To wake up here every morning? To know when the Merediths had tea in the dark or, better yet, to help them sleep til sunrise?

Useless speculation.

Shirley tried to drink the last of his tea and found it impossible. He stood and crossed to the sink, rinsing his cup and setting it in the drainer with a tiny click.

When he could speak, he said, "I'm glad you didn't ask."

"Why?"

"Carl says you may have some better prospects these days."

Una looked down into her cup, retreating into her familiar posture of abnegation. "He shouldn't have said that. It isn't true."

It only took a single step to stand behind her, bend low, embrace her around the back of the chair.

"I hope you're wrong about that."

Shirley squeezed Una gently and kissed her cheek, just at the corner of the wan smile.

"You should go back to bed," she said very quietly. "You still have a few hours."

Shirley did as she bid him, padding silently toward the living room, leaving Una with her perpetual teacup and her quavering candle, waiting wistfully for the coming dawn.

* * *

Notes:

*Scuttle, a three-year-old mare owned by King George V, won the 1928 1000 Guineas Stakes at Rowley Mile Racecourse at Newmarket.

A story update: With Shirley off to England, we turn toward the downward slope of the post-prologue story. I don't have an exact number of chapters planned, but I can promise you that the story will be over by the end of 1942. (I have six chapters loaded in the Doc Manager, which gets us to Christmas 1941, so maybe a dozen after that? I'd really like to bring this thing in for a landing, if you will.)

There is no way I'll be done by Remembrance Day (hi, butterbee!), though my goal for myself is to finish writing by the end of November. I started this as a NaNoWriMo project, so I'm going to try to finish it as one.

Thank you all for sticking with this story as I fumble around with a hundred different digressions and subplots as I draft and meander and double back. Next go-round, there will be better planning, I swear. Thanks for all the feedback on the last chapter - this is a tricky turning point and I really appreciated hearing your thoughts.


	49. Anthony and Lizzie

**Anthony and Lizzie**

* * *

May 1941

* * *

 _This evening, I went away up the hill and prowled about the Disappointed House by moonlight. The Disappointed House was built thirty-seven years ago — partly built, at least — for a bride who never came to it. There it has been ever since, boarded up, unfinished, heart-broken, haunted by the timid, forsaken ghosts of things that should have happened but never did._

\- L.M. Montgomery, _Emily's Quest_ (1927)

* * *

It was a pleasant walk from Aster House to the Second Presbyterian Church of Kingsport, which Carl attempted to enjoy, despite the residual fragility of his head. He was used to the city in winter, when the sidewalks were slippery with graying ice and the wind whipping off the harbor was strong encouragement to hurry from one warm shelter to another. Now it was May Day and lilacs bloomed in every dooryard, crowding the air with the perfume of ever-returning spring. It was impossible to escape them, even at Aster House, where the cloying scent had mingled with the strong coffee Di had poured down his throat when he woke in the early afternoon. It had been a long time since Carl had gotten properly drunk, but tea was plainly inadequate after seeing Shirley off at the harbour. It had been cathartic to drain a bottle with Di and talk a little and cry a little and fall asleep on her bed curled together like kittens. Coffee and a bath and more coffee and Carl was just about able to drag himself out into the floral-fragrant evening for the supper date he had arranged in soberer times.

The Second Presbyterian manse boasted a particularly fine lilac bush outside one of its jutting bay windows, obscuring the interior with clouds of purple blossoms. A cluster of starlings pecked the earth at its base, their iridescent plumage shining green and purple and daring anyone to see anything other than a pleasant tableau.

Carl was neither deceived nor deterred. He tightened his grip on the bouquet of sunny yellow daffodils he had poached from Aster House's front garden and rang the bell, hoping his bowtie was straight.

Edith Marckworth answered the door with a dazzling smile.

"Mr. Meredith! How good to see you again. Anthony was so pleased when you called to say you'd be in town. Do come in!"

Carl offered the bouquet along with the little customary tidbits of praise for the house, the lilacs, the new way of styling her hair that was so becoming. It had been two years since he had visited, though he and Anthony had traded three or four rounds of letters since, enough to claim the label of _friends_ if not to maintain true intimacy. They wrote of church mishaps and boating scrapes and the misadventures of dogs and children, the sort of letters that could be read aloud in any company.

And yet, there were sometimes little sudden sentences that broke through, reminders of what they had once been to one another and could be again if they only had a phonograph and a pot of rouge and a locked door.

"Carl!" Anthony emerged from the recesses of the house to embrace his friend while Edith went off to find a vase. He was warm and solid, his clerical collar peeking out from a cozy sweater that enveloped Carl in welcome comfort. When they broke apart, Anthony kept hold of Carl's shoulders, peering at him with concern. "I want to say you're looking well, but you're a bit green around the gills."

"Sorry," Carl chuckled. "I had a long night. I don't hold my liquor well anymore."

"You never did."

"Ah, maybe not. But you! You look very well."

It was true. Anthony appeared to be in robust good health, the streaks of gray at his temples lending him a distinguished air. He was jovial and well-fed and the arm he put around Carl's shoulder to lead him to the dining room was a strong and welcome brace.

The Marckworths kept a merry table, Anthony and Edith presiding over their charming family with aplomb. They were the sort who played games over dinner, requiring their offspring to answer fanciful hypotheticals or contribute morsels of knowledge to the collective store. Tonight, in honor of their guest, Anthony asked his brood what type of insect they would most like to be. Little Gladys was very sure she'd like to be a ladybird, while Paul and David squabbled over who had claimed tarantula first. Carl settled this by pointing out that tarantulas were not, in fact, insects, and placating them both by naming a variety of gruesome wasps.

"What about you, Mr. Meredith?" Harry asked.

Carl smiled fondly at the half-grown eldest who was beginning to look so much like his father as he had been at Redmond. "I've always loved ants best."

When the meal was done, the children helped their mother clear the table so that they might use it for their homework. Carl followed Anthony to his office, settling into the lilac-shaded bay window seat. It was the sort of lush, wood-paneled room that would have had a well-stocked bar cart if it had not belonged to a Presbyterian minister. As it was, the whiskey lived in a bottom drawer with a pair of cut-glass tumblers that sent refracted rainbows flickering giddily along the spines of many sober and learned tomes.

"Only a very little bit for me," Carl apologized. "I really did overdo things last night."

Anthony handed over a single finger of amber liquid that smelled like a campfire. "Are you in town long?"

"No. I go back tomorrow. I just came to see Shirley off to England."

"England? I thought he was training cadets in Ontario."

"He was," Carl said taking a timid sip. "He took another post. Wanted to be closer to the front."

"Hence the long night?"

"I got a little sloppy with Di Blythe."

Anthony raised his glass as if to sip, but was prevented by the smile that widened into a soft chuckle.

"What?" Carl asked.

"Nothing. Just . . . congratulations."

Carl was not much enlightened by this. His furrowed brow prompted more laughter but no more information until he gave in and asked, "Congratulations for what?"

Anthony rolled the tumbler in his hand, watching it slosh as his smile slouched toward rue. "For holding on to one another. Gosh, how long is it now? Twenty years at least."

Carl shrugged. "Closer to thirty."

The toasting glass might have been mocking if it has been less heartfelt. "Like I said, congratulations. To your happiness."

The whiskey burned the inside of Carl's nose as he drank, but the spreading warmth in his chest was worth it. Truth be told, he didn't feel particularly happy, but it felt churlish to say so, particularly in this house.

"Thanks," he said.

Carl might have left it at that, but there were so few opportunities to talk, to really say something worth saying, and he found himself incautious in his curiosity.

"How about you?" he asked. "I've always wondered . . ."

Anthony poured himself another measure. "Wondered what?"

"Are you happy?"

Anthony paused, poised over the glass as if he had forgotten whether he had finished pouring or not yet begun. Carl examined the bottle in his hand, looking for evidence, but it was half full, neither drained nor untouched, and that wasn't any help at all.

"Yes," Anthony said quietly as he set it down. "That is . . . I have so much. My children. My congregation . . . "

There was no need to ask, only to raise an eyebrow in eloquent inquiry.

"You must believe me about Edith," Anthony murmured. "I do love her. We're the very best of chums."

Carl thought of the dinner table, the banter, the Marckworth children in all their glowing good health, and Edith presiding with a smile. It wasn't a bad life, at least not to look at from the outside.

"Is that enough?"

Anthony's face sagged and Carl's conscience chided him. What did it matter? It wasn't kind to ask. A half-formed apology was halfway to his lips when Anthony sighed.

"Nobody gets everything they want, do they? Not even you, I expect."

"No," Carl conceded quietly. He and Una had done all they could to make the little gray house a home, but it was a very quiet one, and empty, for all it was so small. "Not everything."

It was a simple truth, and like many simple truths, speaking it aloud opened space for more honesty. Anthony took the place beside Carl in the window seat, pulling his feet up on the cushions and letting his head loll back against the frame.

"You would have made a great father."

Carl tapped his toes against the edge of the carpet. "Maybe," he shrugged. "Do you remember Nellie Fletcher? My friend from Redmond?"

"Sure."

"Shirley wanted me to marry her."

"No he didn't."

Carl acknowledged the truth of that, smiling down at his own feet. "No. He didn't. But he told me to consider it. She liked me. A lot. And I . . . well . . . I think I'm not quite like you and Shirley. I could have loved Nellie the way she loved me."

"But you chose Shirley anyway?"

"Course I did."

Anthony clicked his tongue and took a long pull on his drink. "Did you ever tell Nellie why?"

"Yes. Have you ever told Edith?"

Another sip. For a moment, Carl thought he would get no answer. But at length, Anthony croaked, "Yes."

No need to ask a follow-up. He would tell or not, but it was his choice.

"There have been a few times when I strayed from my vows. It felt awful to lie to Edith about anything, so about ten years ago, I told her everything."

Carl was honestly surprised. Not that Anthony had stepped out; he was as human as anyone else. No, he was surprised in retrospect at the obvious warmth and affection he had observed all evening.

"She wasn't angry?"

Anthony chortled darkly. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. But she loves me, and I love her, and the strange thing is that I think we're closer now than we were before. We can tell each other anything. Everything. Neither of us has any secrets anymore."

"She forgave you?"

"Yes. And I forgave her. We go on forgiving each other and being as generous as we can. I think that's really what it means to love someone — helping them find their happiness without jealousy and finding your joy in theirs."

It wasn't Carl's place to ask what sort of secrets Edith Marckworth might have disclosed. Could two people who needed such different things ever really reach an equilibrium that allowed them both to thrive? He felt the pang of his own guilt over shrinking Shirley's horizons these past decades. Maybe it was impossible to understand any relationship from the outside.

"You and Edith, you have . . . an understanding?"

Anthony nodded. "You could call it that. We have our life together. And our own lives as well. Edith has a very nice gentleman friend who adores her."

Carl's first reaction was that it could never work. Someone would get terribly hurt.

But Anthony nudged him with a toe and smiled. "You mustn't think our life is a tragedy, Carl. Go ask Edith. Maybe it's not exactly the life she expected, but it's still a good one."

Carl was not convinced. "You lied, to her, Anthony," he said quietly. "She should have had a choice, but you didn't let her. It wasn't fair for you to make a decision like that for both of you."

Anthony studied the bottom of his cup. "I know. It's no excuse to say that the world isn't fair either. I was wrong not to be honest with her before we married. But I've spent the last ten years making amends and you must believe me when I say that Edith and I have found a way that works for us. It may sound far-fetched, but I think there are more roads to happiness than most people have dared to imagine."

Perhaps. Goodness knew the Lowbridge Road had a loop or two in it where most roads had only bends.

"You never answered the original question," Carl observed.

"Which was . . ."

"Are you happy?"

A complex emotion rippled across Anthony's expressive face, never resolving into one Carl could name. He knew his friend well, but not well enough, and perhaps there were depths at 45 that had simply not been there at 25.

"I've made my choices," Anthony said, "and I don't often regret them."

"But you do sometimes?"

"Only when I think about you."

Carl's brows shot up and Anthony laughed.

"I didn't quite mean it like that," he said, pausing to take a fortifying sip. "Well, no. I did mean it like that. But I knew that was a lost cause right from the start. Gosh, Harry used to tease me about you. Mercilessly. Right from the very first night we played darts together. But no, I meant . . . when I think about what you have. It's hard not to be a little jealous."

It seemed improbable to Carl that anyone could envy his life. From the inside, it was all goodbyes and disappointed houses and inescapable anxieties always fluttering at the edges of his mind, grown from butterflies to bats now that Shirley's transport was out in the middle of the North Atlantic. But the soft, sympathetic gaze of his old friend saw clearly enough, and it was enough to make a sob gather in Carl's chest, here in the wood-paneled, hearth-warm office under the lilac bush that hid this room from the street. The only way to stave it off was with a smile.

"Harry really used to tease you?"

Anthony pulled a face and relaxed against the window frame. "You were awfully cute. I hated Shirley."

"Did you?"

"Sure. But there wasn't a fella at Redmond who didn't hate one or the other of you. 'Cept maybe Harry."

"Were you two ever an item?" Carl asked, emboldened.

"Off and on. We were better as friends, though."

Carl raised his glass. "To Harry."

"To Harry," Anthony echoed. "And we never really hated you."

* * *

The Westland Lysander at the RAF base in Newmarket was painted black. Matte black. A black so flat and unrelenting that it seemed to drink light in, rather than reflecting it. Nothing at all like the daffodil-yellow Harvards and Nomads back at Camp Borden.*

"They look bloody fearsome in daylight," Squadron Leader Grayson was explaining, "but we don't fly during the day. Only at night and only at the full moon. With luck, the Jerries will never see you and you'll never see them."

Shirley ran a palm over the fuselage of the Lysander — _Lizzie_ to her friends. She reminded him absurdly of an old chantey of Captain Malachi's — _round in the counter and bluff in the bow_ — stubby and blunt, her short, tapered wings mounted nearly as high as the Piper Cub's, giving a similar impression of rabbit ears. She had fixed landing gear, rather than retractable, with two enormous, ungainly bulges dangling from her undercart. Shirley was reminded of Nomad trying to fly back to Davenport carrying a fat gopher, wings pumping hard just to stay airborne. Gil would certainly take the piss out of him for flying this nugget.

But the Lizzie had other qualities to recommend her. For one thing, she could fly remarkably slowly. Admittedly, this feature had not served the RAF well in the campaign over France in the spring of 1940, but it was a tremendous asset if you wanted to land in a dooryard. Furthermore, the cockpit sat very high over the body, poking up above the wings to give an excellent field of view for reconnaissance and photography. It wasn't an aircraft that was good at everything, but it was very good at something specific.

"The full moon, sir?" Shirley asked.

"That's right," Squadron Leader Grayson confirmed. "We fly with no lights, so you'll need the moonlight to read your map. No navigator either, I'm afraid — we fly solo with no wireless communication. You'll be doing your own navigating by dead reckoning and landmarks on the ground, such as they are."

Like going back in time, technology-wise. Oh well, that didn't bother Shirley much. He was confident in his maths.

"What about being seen from above?"

"Pardon me?"

Shirley frowned. "Matte black will be hard to see against the night sky if you're looking up from an anti-aircraft gun. But if a fighter is flying above you on a moonlit night and looking down, wouldn't a blotched paint job on the uppers be better camouflage?"

Squadron Leader Grayson blinked, a look of mild consternation drawing sandy brows together over his delicate nose. "Perhaps," he said, then drew a notepad from his tunic pocket and scribbled something down.

As he wrote, Shirley scrutinized the man who was technically his commander, though he didn't actually outrank him. Slim and narrow-featured, Grayson couldn't have been thirty. He reminded Shirley of RAF Newmarket itself, which was not a purpose-built aerodrome, but rather several temporary buildings imposed on the Rowley Mile Racecourse. Earlier this morning, after introducing Shirley to the rest of the squadron, Grayson had lamented that he had arrived too late to watch the Duke of Westminster's three-year-old — a fine horse indeed — win the 2000 Guineas Stakes. Not that they ran on Rowley Mile at the moment of course. No, the RAF had turned the flat, buttercup-dappled heath into a runway and relocated all races to the nearby July Racecourse, which would have to do for the duration.

"Am I permitted to know what, exactly, you do on these flights, sir?" Shirley asked.

"Naturally, Blythe." Grayson tucked his notebook back into a pocket. "Our main objective is to support resistance fighters in France. We work closely with agents trained by the Special Operations Executive for duty behind the lines — sabotage, reconnaissance, organization of resistance networks, wireless communications, _etcetera, etcetera_."

Shirley had suspected as much, but frowned at the _etceteras_. "Spies?"

Grayson pursed his lips daintily. "I don't know that they particularly like to be called that. But yes."

"Who are they?"

"All sorts. Refugees from occupied countries. English gents who grew up in France and are fluent. One bloke was some sort of arms dealer. There are women, too, though we haven't flown any yet."

"And you fly them to France?"

" _We_ fly them to France, Blythe. Sometimes Poland. Norway. Wherever they need to go, really. Sometimes we fly them over in a bomber and they parachute out; other times we hand-deliver them with the Lizzies. Two passengers fit comfortably, three in a pinch. We do extractions, as well: high-profile exiles and resistance leaders and SOE agents who have completed their missions."

"So it's a taxi service?"

"A taxi service!" It took Grayson a moment to decide whether to be outraged or amused, but he settled on laughter. "I suppose it is! Spy taxi. But it's not only passengers; we deliver supplies as well."

He indicated the bomb bays, empty now, but clearly renovated to hold some sort of substantial cargo.

"Each bay holds a six-foot cylinder packed with whatever the Frogs have requested. They're starved for munitions, so we send Sten guns, ammunition, plastic explosives. Also wireless equipment, medical supplies — we've even sent printer's ink to keep an underground newspaper circulating."

A lifeline. Of course, the French were bearing the brunt of the risk, and no half-dozen Lizzies in the world could deliver enough guns or enough saboteurs to overthrow the Nazis. But they could help the French hold out, worrying the edges of the Occupation with attacks on telegraph wires and power stations, breaking factory equipment and disrupting transportation. It wasn't much, but it was all a reeling Britain could muster at the moment. It was good work. Important work.

Shirley slapped the Lizzie with a flat palm. "When can I begin, sir?"

The question seemed to please Grayson, who smiled genially, looking so boyish that Shirley revised his earlier guess at the man's age downward.

"You've a fair bit of training to do yet, Blythe. The Lizzies are very particular beasts, especially modified like this. You'll be flying at very low altitudes with heavy loads and landing in whatever hayfield or cow pasture the resistance can secure. Murder on the engines and the undercarts both. Our ground crews are the best in the business, but it's up to you to bring the old girl home to them. So you'll need to practice very short landings and takeoffs. Plus you'll have navigation training and the other as well."

"The other?"

Grayson's smile tightened into an apology. "We aren't SOE agents here, Blythe. But the nature of these missions . . . well, if you ever _do_ see the Jerries up close, they aren't likely to draw a very fine distinction between passengers and pilots. You'll be trained in evasion, escape, and withstanding interrogation."

 _Right._

The fuselage was cool under Shirley's palm, the black wings overhead creating a little patch of shade that dimmed the buttercups underfoot. It was probably a good thing that he couldn't put any of this in a letter. Still, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't itching to climb up into the cockpit and see just what this strange little bird was capable of.

"Let's get started."

* * *

Notes:

*The next several chapters are informed by a book called _We Landed by Moonlight: Secret RAF Landings in France, 1940-1944_ (1998), written by Lysander pilot Group Captain Hugh Verity. In a few instances, I have fudged the timeline very slightly to give you an idea of what the Special Duties squadrons were up to. Grayson might jump the gun on a few details - like the female SOE agents in training, which he probably shouldn't be blabbing about even if he did know about them - just for your benefit. Because dammit this story is ending in 1942.


	50. Operational Conditions

**Operational Conditions**

* * *

July 1941

* * *

 _ **Germans Launch New Drives Against Soviets**_

 _ **More Thousands of Canadians Overseas**_

 _ **Red-Nazi Armies Locked in Death Struggle**_

 _ **New Gasoline Regulations Start Monday**_

 _ **Japanese Move into Indo-China Expected Hourly**_

\- headlines from the _Charlottetown Guardian_ , July 1941

* * *

The consultants from SOE had issued Shirley civilian clothing with the tags cut out. There was a coarse white shirt and a blue roll-neck sweater, along with knobbly corduroy trousers and aggressively nondescript skivvies. Not a single article bore a tailor's mark or manufacturer's label, not even the shoes, which Shirley was supposed to keep stowed with his escape kit.

He would still fly in his boots and flight jacket. If he were ambushed and forced to surrender before he could get away, there was a chance the bits of uniform might get him sent to a POW camp rather than a Gestapo interrogation. Not much of a chance, but a chance nonetheless. If he had an opportunity to evade capture, he would burn the uniform along with the Lysander and melt into the civilian population.

That's where the escape kit came in, with all the essentials: a wad of cash thick enough for bribes or black market food, a map printed on silk that could fold to the size of a thumb, a compass, fishing line and hooks, emergency rations, and — indispensable, no doubt — a black woolen beret. Shirley tended to think that no hat on earth would make a difference once he opened his mouth. After six weeks of study between training sessions, his French was better than it had ever been, which was to say that he could understand a third of what people said to him and respond with the vocabulary of an especially bright toddler.

Still, the rest of the training had gone very well and Shirley was ready for his final test. He had sailed through the physical conditioning and small arms practice, and impressed the SOE instructors during simulated interrogations. The Lysander pilots didn't receive full SOE training, but they knew enough about sensitive operations that they needed to be able to follow protocol if they were ever captured. If that happened, the goal wasn't to survive, but rather to endure a full forty-eight hours of interrogation to give their compromised network enough time to disperse.

In the event that the pilots were able to evade capture after things went agley, they had instructions to return to England as quickly as possible, either by linking up with the Resistance for an extraction by Lysander or by making their way to Spain or Gibraltar and presenting themselves to British authorities there. Tricky, since they'd be carrying false papers, but just get to a consulate and the RAF promised they'd sort the whole thing out from there.

By far, Shirley's favorite part of training had been getting to know the Lizzies. He'd been assigned to Lysander D, code named _Odd Duck,_ and could honestly say that she was right up there with the old Curtiss and the Piper Cub in any competition for his affections. Let other men praise their Spitfires and eulogize their S.E.5as; _Odd Duck_ was a dumpy little gem and Shirley loved her.

True to her name, she had all manner of quirks, one of which was a fundamental inelegance on the ground. Sometimes, Shirley could barely taxi her from runway to hangar, given her ornery insistence on going in a straight line at all times. But give her a straightway — a very short one — and you'd be in the air and gaining altitude before you even realized you'd begun. By now, Shirley could launch _Odd Duck_ from a cottage lane and put her down safely on a kitchen table.

He had been ready to fly his qualifying mission for weeks, but the Special Duties squadron only flew under the full moon. Shirley watched it wax silver, growing round and fat with each passing night until it lacked only a sliver. Then it was time to suit up.

"Let's see your watch," Grayson drawled, standing by a table in the makeshift headquarters. The tabletop was littered with false papers for one _BLANCHET, Sébastien Jean_ , it being easier to recall a lie when it was half true. There were other things, too — a map, a compass, and a small box marked _Personal Effects, BLYTHE, S. J._ that already contained Shirley's wallet and identity tags.

Shirley unhooked the warm leather strap and handed over his timepiece, rubbing the cool band it left around his wrist.

Grayson examined it, frowning. "You'll need it for flying, of course, but not many rural Frenchmen would wear any watch, let alone a cheap Ingersoll Radiolite. If you ever have to ditch, destroy it."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't you want a better watch than this?" Grayson frowned. "I half expect it to have Mickey Mouse on the dial."

"I like it just fine, sir," Shirley said evenly.

He concentrated on betraying no emotion when Grayson flipped the watch over and ran a thumb across the back. "TCM?"

He raised a blonde brow, but Shirley could hold his silence for much longer than this.

"Well, think of a plausible cover," Grayson sighed as he tossed the watch back. "In case something goes wrong and someone interrogates you about it."

"Yes, sir." Shirley fastened it back in place and felt more himself, even in these strange and anonymous clothes.

"Any other personal effects?" Grayson asked. "Religious medals? Rings?"

No and no, but Shirley reached into his pocket and produced his old corkscrew knife and the silver lighter, placing them carefully in Grayson's palm.

The knife passed muster with a shrug, being nothing much to look at and useful besides.

The lighter was another matter. Grayson evidently liked the look of it, running his thumb over the hinge in a way that would have made Shirley flinch if he were the flinching sort.

"Best leave it," Grayson said.

The lighter rattled into the box of personal effects, to be reclaimed when Shirley was safe home again.

"Shouldn't I have a lighter, though?" Shirley asked. "In case I have to burn the Lysander?"

The Nazis had been itching to get their hands on a converted Lysander, the better to understand how SOE agents were getting in and out of France. They certainly preferred that it still have an agent or two inside when they captured it, or a pilot at the very least. But if all they could do was capture the machine, that would do well enough. The pilots of the Special Duties Squadron were under very strict orders to destroy their planes if they could not get them off the ground.

"You can use the matches from your kit," Grayson said.

There was nothing left but to find out what, exactly, the qualifying task entailed. It wasn't a real mission; Shirley would carry no passengers until he had proven his mettle. But there was still an objective, which Grayson was now indicating on the map.

"Here it is, Blythe. You will fly under operational conditions — no lights, no wireless, no navigator — to these coordinates: 47.1314 degrees North, 0.1561 degrees West. You will see The Light. Then you will return and report on what you saw."

Shirley scowled. "The Light?"

"You'll either find it or you won't," Grayson smirked. "If you do, you won't be in any doubt."

Shirley would have preferred a straightforward answer rather than this enigma, but there was a job to be done and he would do it, even if he was still not clear exactly what _it_ was. Well, he had coordinates and that was all he really needed.

Dusk settled over the racecourse as Shirley made his final preparations. It wasn't a dangerous mission, not really, not if you didn't count antiaircraft batteries on the coast or the usual hazards of night flying or weather or radio silence.

Now, he sat with pencil and ruler, marking his map with landmarks and approximate flying times. He placed a neat circle around his objective, noting the distinctive bend in the Loire to the north and the straight path of a canal that cut a visible swath to the west.

Out on the runway, the ground crew had _Odd Duck_ oiled and fueled and ready to go. Shirley swung up the spars and into the cockpit, checking his instruments and compass by the cool light of the rising moon. His map was strapped to his thigh with the target area clearly visible as long as he was able to catch a moonbeam.

A ready signal from the torches of the ground crew and Shirley began to prime the engine and cylinders, pumping and pumping until the finicky Bristol Mercury engine decided it was ready as well. The propellor started to spin and then there was nothing left to do but follow the torch path down the runway, pick up a little speed, and lift free, up, up, up, into the moonlight.

*/*/*

The constant growl of _Odd Duck_ 's engine was as reassuring as it was ominous, like the rattling breath of a congested child: bad enough, certainly, but much worse if it were to stop. Below, the spectral shimmer of a full moon rimed the lapping waves of the Channel, gilding a path toward the dark shore ahead.

Shirley crossed the coastline at an outrageous altitude more suited to dragonflies than aeroplanes. But a plane at normal altitude was visible a long way off, so the lower the better for passing over the beaches. He had charted a course between observation stations, and if he had navigated well, Shirley should be able to slip past unnoticed.

The engine noise was a problem, of course. It seemed astonishing that _Odd Duck_ didn't wake the whole countryside with her grunting, gnarring grumble. The thrum reverberated from Shirley's chest out to the very tips of his fingers and toes, his whole body vibrating in time with the oscillation of the machinery. But France was dark and sleeping, or dark and wakeful, but impossible to tell the difference in a blackout.

The beach and its defenses behind him, Shirley began to climb. Not high enough to attract the notice of night fighters patrolling the skies for bombers, but high enough that he no longer had to worry about tall trees. It would take another two hours to reach The Light, whatever it was, and no sense flying low the whole way.

At cruising altitude, Shirley took a moment to pencil some notations on his map, recording the time and marking his current heading. Without the lights of Caen and Le Mans to guide him, he would have to rely on dead reckoning to find his objective. It wasn't so very difficult, as long as there were no complications.

There weren't. A little flak here and there. A searchlight to avoid. A squadron of night fighters passing far overhead. But nothing Shirley was not equal to. _Odd Duck_ went on grinding through the lonely dark, untethered but for the moon, shining cold and brilliant in a cloudless sky.

Shirley checked his watch at intervals, ticking off his current position on the map. The notations were as accurate as they could be, but they were only as good as the fallible mechanisms of watch and compass and airspeed indicator. He'd been especially careful of his compass after hearing one of the other pilots tell how he'd flown fifty miles off course one time, attributing the compass error to _taking his stainless steel whisky flask out of his breast pocket and shoving it into the top of one of his flying boots, very near the compass_.*

When he thought he must be close to the Loire, Shirley dipped lower. Yes, there it was, just where it should be, a pewter ribbon of moonlight cutting through the flat black countryside. He followed its cool, glinting undulations until he spied the gleaming limestone buildings of Saumur, the white city that could not be hidden from the moon even when its windows were dark.

No sign of The Light yet.

The target coordinates lay to the south. But there were no lights anywhere and Shirley shifted in his seat, wondering whether perhaps this were a puzzle or a pun. What was the test, exactly? Was it a metaphor?

It was not.

Neither was it ambiguous. Shirley was still miles away when he glimpsed The Light, which couldn't be anything else. Closer, it was a brilliant rectangle on the ground, a harsh outline of electric lights shining brighter than any lighthouse.

There was no mistaking it at all, but Shirley circled twice, memorizing details, making estimates, noting distances. It couldn't be a factory or a depot, not unless the Germans wanted to make it as easy as possible for the RAF to bomb it. No village was lit up like that, not even in festival time, and none of these ancient little towns were built on such precise geometries. Whatever it was, Shirley was very glad to leave it behind.

*/*/*

The midsummer nights were short. By the time Shirley touched back down in Newmarket, the eastern sky was already lightening to gray, with pink and peach not far behind. He left _Odd Duck_ in the capable hands of the ground crew and reported to Grayson's office hut, finding the man hunched over an enticingly aromatic cup of coffee.

"Blythe!" he exclaimed. "Right on time. Didn't run into any trouble?"

"None, sir."

"Did you see The Light?"

"I did."

"Describe it."

Grayson sipped his coffee as Shirley recounted what he had seen, including every detail he could remember.

"Jolly good, Blythe," he grinned. "No need to scout the place; the idea is to navigate efficiently under operational conditions and you've done that in spades. Now I imagine you'd like some breakfast and a kip."

"That's all, sir?"

"Yes. Fine work. You'll have a real mission under the August moon."

Shirley nodded and turned to go. There would be eggs and perhaps even bacon over at the manor house serving as officer's quarters. Heavenly coffee, too, though he'd only allow himself a sip or he'd never get to sleep. As it was, Shirley suspected it might be difficult to rest easily.

He turned back to Grayson, who had settled back to his paperwork.

"What is it, sir?" Shirley asked.

"Pardon?"

"The Light? It can't be a military base, not lit up like that."

"Oh." Grayson frowned. "It's a prison camp."

That made sense. Nearly two million French soldiers had been captured last year, and they had to be held somewhere. Although . . .

"I had understood that most of the French POWs were being held in Germany," Shirley said.

"They are. This is a concentration camp for civilians."*

Shirley wasn't certain he wanted to know more, but he had to ask. "What sort of civilians?"

Grayson sighed. "We aren't sure exactly. There are rumors, of course. Nothing concrete. But we're finding camps all over. They make good landmarks, always lit up like that. Floodlights around the perimeter."

Rumors and inference. Maybe it was nothing at all, but Shirley's flesh crept under the coarse weave of his civilian shirt.

". . . some sleep, Blythe," Grayson was saying.

"Sorry, sir?"

"Sleep. You can file your report this afternoon."

"When do I start preparing for my August mission?"

The chortle was not unfriendly, though it still sounded harsh to Shirley's ear. "In August! You'll find we get quite a lot of leave around here, Blythe. You're due back at the quarter moon. Until then, try to have a bit of fun, won't you?"

* * *

One Sunday morning in July, Carl Meredith walked into the Glen St. Mary church with Di Blythe and escorted her to the manse pew. Ordinarily, such a sight would have sparked a month's gossip, but in this case it barely registered. After all, Jerry and Nan were home from Charlottetown and it was hardly surprising that the Blythe twins would want to sit together when they had the chance. Besides, every eye was riveted to the Ingleside pew, where Leading Seaman Wally Blythe sat grinning a toothy grin as Zoe Maylock clung to the arm of his Navy blues, her blonde curls and his close-cropped carrots attracting whispers like moths to flame.

 _"Are they engaged, then?"_

 _"And Wally only nineteen!"_

 _"Reminds me of us, dearest."_

 _"It's a wonder young Doctor Blythe allows it."_

 _"Another war wedding afoot, I suppose?"_

"Faith says they aren't," Di whispered, leaning toward Carl's ear. "Not officially, at least. Apparently, Zoe's parents are against it for some reason."

"Really?" asked Carl. "I thought it was your parents who didn't approve of Zoe."***

Di flapped a hand at him. "Who cares? It's Jem's opinion and Faith's that matter, and they like Zoe fine. Just look at them."

Indeed, Jem and Faith appeared to have no reservations about Zoe's presence in their pew, or else their delight at having Wally home for a few precious days outshone any qualms. Perhaps the kids were engaged and perhaps they were not, but they were happy and safe for the moment, and that was more than enough.

Rosemary coaxed the harmonium into a wheezy prelude and the congregation stood to answer the call to worship. Together, they sang the grand old hymn:

 _Oh God, our help in ages past  
_ _Our hope for years to come,  
_ _Our shelter from the stormy blast  
_ _And our eternal home._

Di tucked her arm comfortably into Carl's as they settled in for the sermon. Carl was very glad that she had asked the hospital for a few weeks' vacation this summer, and that she had decided to come home to the Island. He had not stayed long in Kingsport this past April, but long enough to observe how solemn Aster House had grown without the spritely presence of its pink lady. Sylvia was in Basingstoke, writing jolly letters about the myriad ways the Canadian infantry boys found to injure themselves as they attempted to keep busy with endless training exercises. But a letter was not a substitute and even practical Di could not soldier on alone forever. Anthony had promised to look in on her regularly, and had begun sending cheerful, friendly letters once every other week or so, in which reports of Di's continued good health served as thin cover for checking in on Carl himself. Carl couldn't say he wasn't grateful, both for the concern and for the task of keeping up another correspondence.

He put a hand over Di's in the crook of his elbow as Father began to speak.

" _Our help in ages past_ ," Father quoted. " _The same yesterday, to-day, and forever. When we forget God, He remembers us._ "****

How strange to sit here, thinking of past, present, and future as unchanged and unchanging. Carl had sat in this very pew twenty-six years ago, in his last boyhood summer, and heard a very similar sermon. Well, perhaps not this very pew. The manse children had always been given to _sitting all over the church_ , and especially that summer, with his eighteenth birthday looming and the end of the war nowhere in sight. Perhaps Carl could have claimed a place in the Ingleside pew then, in the name of friendship, but he had been too afraid of Susan's weather eye. Would she have noticed anything amiss? Maybe not, fretting over the fate of Premysl and Petrograd as _all summer the Russian retreat went on — a long-drawn-out agony_.**** It was the same now, except that Premsyl was called Przemyśl and long since fallen in any case, and Petrograd was called Leningrad and likely to go the same way. The same yesterday, today, and forever.

But there was other evidence that time did not, in fact, stand still. In the pulpit, Father spoke with a voice that was not quite as carrying at seventy-six as it had been at fifty. Susan slept quietly in the over-harbor graveyard under the stone Shirley had chosen for her, near Miss Cornelia and as far as possible from Sophia Crawford. Babies who were neither born nor thought of in that long-ago summer were now rumored to be engaged. And of course, there was the memorial plaque hanging over the Blythe pew — _Sacred to the memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe_ — that drew Carl's eye no matter which bench he chose. If there was one thing that really was eternal, that was it.

The sermon ended without Carl's noticing. Luckily, Di still had a hold on his arm and he stood when she did. He tripped through the rest of the service competently enough without absorbing a word of it, only really waking when people began to move into the aisles and toward the door. More than a few found excuses to greet one or another of the Blythes, their gawping only lightly veiled by neighborly overtures.

"So do you guess they're official?" Jerry asked, dark eyes flashing as he jostled Carl with his elbow.

"Oh, Jerry, they're children!" Nan protested.

"They're both nineteen," Jerry observed. "I had to fill Jem's pockets with rocks and douse him with cold water twice a week to make him wait that long to propose to Faith."

The church was humming with chatter and there was no way Jem could have actually heard them, but he chose that moment to look up from the fawning attentions of Gilbertine Pollock and shoot an exasperated plea toward the manse pew.

"That's us summoned, I suppose," Di laughed.

"You go on," Jerry said, dropping a kiss on Nan's cheek and holding the pew door open for her and Di. "We'll be along in a minute."

Carl peered at his brother, who nodded good morning to several passing Drews before turning back to Carl.

"You doing alright?" he asked, dropping his voice with genuine concern.

"Sure," Carl lied.

Jerry, who had not gotten to be a judge by being easily deceived, frowned. "Carl, if there's ever anything we can do . . ."

"There isn't."

Jerry swallowed whatever he had been about to say and Carl's conscience pricked. He was only trying to help.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "It's good to see you. Good to see Di smiling."

Over by the window, both Blythe twins were laughing over some shared joke with Faith. They were an eclectic trio, Faith radiant in her neat but sturdy Sunday best, Nan having outgrown the Glen in her silk and lace, Di an unapologetic visitor from another genre in Hepburn trousers. But whatever Faith was saying kept them in stitches the whole time Carl looked.

"I could stand to see you smiling a bit more," Jerry said quietly.

"Well then you'll have to learn to tell a joke."

Jerry smiled ruefully and scuffed a toe of his mirror-polished shoe against the bare wood of the floor. "Ah, well, not much hope in that case."

The Ingleside pew was emptying now, Jem waving over the heads of his children for Jerry and Carl to follow them out into the summer sunshine. Wally led the way, head so high it was practically floating, Zoe Maylock skipping down the aisle at his side. If Carl did not exactly smile at sight of them, his face did soften at sight of their joy.

"Not much," he conceded. "But enough to keep going."

* * *

Notes:

*Verity, _We Landed by Moonlight,_ 30\. They really did have berets in their escape kits.

**Shirley's training is based on Hugh Verity's account of his training in No. 161 Squadron in his book, _We Landed by Moonlight_. Verity describes the final navigation test given to him before he was qualified to fly SOE agents in his Lysander. The concentration camp at Montreuil-Bellay, just south of Saumur, held several thousand Romani of all ages (including women and children) for the duration of the war. It was not a camp set up specifically for executions, but conditions were pestilential and many of the people interned there died. It was operated by French authorities, not Nazis.

***From "A Commonplace Woman" in _The Blythes are Quoted_ : "One of the sons of one of them was also thought to have a liking for Zoe. She was very popular. But he thought he had the inside track, not to mention the fact that it was whispered that Dr. And Mrs. Blythe had no great liking for the affair." In context, Dr. and Mrs. Blythe are Gilbert and Anne, as Dr. Parsons makes reference to their sons but does not seem to know Jem (lending credence to the reading that Jem either did not become a doctor or did not stay in the Glen after the war - this is also the passage that says one of the Blythe boys was "crippled" in the war, which could mean that Jem's limp was severe or that Shirley was injured in a way that isn't mentioned in _RoI_ ).

**** _RoI_ , chapter 15, "Until the Day Break"


	51. Expertise

**Expertise**

* * *

August 1941

* * *

It was difficult to eat under the unblinking gaze of a hundred glass eyes. Maybe two hundred. Shirley had not counted. All he knew was that the dining room at the manor house where the pilots of the Special Duties Squadron boarded was dominated by a huge glass case full of stuffed birds. Hawks, ravens, starlings, tiny songbirds perched artfully on bits of branch. One particularly fearsome owl had pride of place in its own dome on the top of the cabinet, glaring at anyone who dared consume an egg under its sharp yellow eyes. There were geese, of course, and ducks, pheasants and quail and really, every kind of bird Shirley could name, plus many more besides. He'd ask Carl to fill in the gaps, but fancied he knew what he might say about ornithology by gunshot. The birds loomed in every room of the manor house, staring their dead stares as the pilots attempted to eat and sleep and prepare for their moonlit missions. Shirley spent as much time as possible in the gardens.

It was quite a small manor house, no bigger than Ingleside, really. Shirley shared a bedroom with Squadron Leader Grayson. Yet, it was more than sufficient for their needs, particularly since their unusual schedule meant that the house was only full for ten days out of the month. Two of the English pilots were married and spent their new moons at home with their wives and children, returning as if some faerie summons called them hither every time the moon waxed full. The others were younger — boys really — and preferred to spend their time in London or at the seaside, basking in the general adoration of a grateful public. Their work was fundamentally solitary, and while they enjoyed cordial relations with one another, their friendships tended to cluster in twos and threes, rather than in general unit cohesion.

That was fine by Shirley, who was the oldest man in the outfit and not inclined toward casual camaraderie in any case. He spent his days picking his way through French phrasebooks and keeping up his correspondence. There was little enough he could write about, so he made a point of describing the local fauna to Carl, taxidermy excepted, and checking in on the racehorses for his parents. He even ventured an opinion or two on Emily Dickinson in letters to his mother, who sent him some bits of Walter's juvenilia in return. It wasn't half bad, even if it did sound like it was written before the Flood.

This afternoon, however, Shirley had escaped East Anglia on a southbound train, rolling through the swales of the English countryside toward the the Sussex shore. Sometime around sunset, he alighted on a chestnut-shaded platform amid fields of harvest gold that hid an aerodrome somewhere among them. The cobbled village streets were quiet, but there was bustle aplenty in the pub under the sign of St. George and the Dragon. The taproom was already packed with airmen, jolly even if they weren't quite drunk yet. There were a few women in the place — a table of Women's Auxiliary Air Force drivers laughing over their glasses and half a dozen civilian girls dressed for dancing — but for the most part, the patrons were off-duty RAF boys. One was telling a long, loud story about taking down an Me 109, another was trying to carry four pints at once, while a group in the corner had some sort of dice game going. Shirley felt old and tired just watching them for half a minute.

"Uncle Shirley!"

He turned toward the row of booths and yes, there he was, bounding out of his seat, grinning like a great golden jack-o-lantern. Shirley opened his arms and Gil almost knocked him over with a back-clapping hug. He was real and solid and positively wriggling with excitement.

"You made it!"

"Course I did. You said it was important."

Gil was already steering Shirley back toward the booth whence he had sprung. For the past month, his letters had been bursting with a single topic, and now here she was in the flesh: Rose Findlay-Stevenson. Or, Shirley corrected himself at sight of her WAAF uniform, _Section Officer_ Findlay-Stevenson. She was a lively woman of medium height, with strawberry-blonde hair pinned up in rolls and a wry, too-wide mouth that curled at one corner. If Shirley had to guess, he'd say she was at least four or five years older than Gil. She had a firm handshake and snapping green eyes that admitted no possibility of leniency. Shirley liked her on sight.

"Rose, this my Uncle Shirley," Gil announced. "Uncle Shirley, Rose."

"Section Officer," Shirley said, nodding.

"Sir."

Shirley smiled. "I suppose while we're drinking together I can just be Shirley."

"And you must call me Rose."

Gil clapped his hands. "Drinks. Another round, Rose? What will you have, Uncle Shirley?"

"Whatever you're having."

The kid skipped off to the bar and Shirley settled into the booth across from Rose.

"Gil tells me you're an air traffic controller," he said pleasantly.

"Gil tells me you're God Almighty."

Shirley guffawed." Sorry to disappoint."

She gave him an appraising look up and down. "Haven't so far."

Oh, Christ, Gil had his hands full here. Shirley was tickled to death.

"How did you two meet?" he asked through a bitten lip.

"Over the wireless. Ford decided he liked my voice and told me so every time I guided him home from a mission. He's quite the flirt, your nephew."

"I have no doubt. Though you'll forgive me if I say I'm surprised that that worked."

It was Rose's turn to laugh. "Certainly not! You're none of you as original as you think you are."

"But you're here, aren't you?"

The supple smile softened a few degrees. "One night, he came limping back behind the others. No jokes. No teasing. He didn't say that anything was wrong, but I knew."

Shirley's brows drew together. Gil hadn't mentioned any incidents in his letters . . .

"His kite had taken a few hits," Rose explained. "He wasn't wounded, but his oxygen system had been damaged. I didn't know that, but I could hear him coughing and he wasn't . . . himself. Wasn't sharp."

Laughter was a distant memory, despite the merriment around them. Oxygen deprivation didn't just lead to shortness of breath — it could cause confusion, impaired judgement, and loss of consciousness. Trying to land three tons of warplane in that state . . .

"He wasn't really listening to orders," she went on. "I knew he was cheeky, but not stupid. That's how I knew something was wrong."

"What did you do?" Shirley asked, voice tight.

"I called him Gilbert. That got his attention. Then I walked him through the whole landing, one step at a time, start to finish. And made sure an ambulance met him on the ground."

Shirley was impressed that she knew how to land a Spitfire, but that wasn't the crucial point at the moment. "Was he alright?"

Rose shrugged and finished off the last sip of her previous pint. "He fainted. I went to see him in the hospital after, which is when he asked me to let him buy me a drink in thanks."

"And the rest is history?"

"History?" This from Gil, who had popped up at the end of the table, balancing three honey-brown glasses against one another.

"I was just telling your uncle your fainting story, since it seems that you forgot it in your letters," Rose said sweetly.

Gil grimaced as he slid into the booth beside her. "I only had to stay in hospital one night. Hardly worth mentioning. I'm sound as a bell."

"Yes, well, I hadn't quite finished the tale," Rose said, the quirk of her lip daring him to stop her.

"It wasn't my fault!" Gil protested. "I was addled!"

"And here I thought you were ready to ring a full peal."

"I am! Only, I was a bit befuddled in the moment."

"A likely story."

Shirley watched the back-and-forth, not knowing what they might be talking about, but watching the way they did it. Eye-to-eye, animated but without rancor, the slightest brush of sleeve against sleeve.

Rose turned toward Shirley, pursing her lips in mock offense. "He forgot my name."

"I never knew your name!"

"Well, he forgot to ask my name. Asked me to go for a pint and then had no way to contact me when he got out of hospital. Didn't even know which tower I worked in!"

"You could have volunteered that information," Gil grumbled, "knowing I was in a delicate state."

Rose unfurled her capacious smile. "And make things easy for you? Never."

Shirley hid a smile in a sip of beer. "I take it you worked it out eventually."

"Every mission after that, I kept waiting to hear her voice," Gil said. "I kept getting assigned to other controllers, though. I thought maybe she had been transferred. I had just decided I'd have to go and start interrogating people at all the different towers when I finally heard her again."

"Yes, and asked me my name right over the open wireless, clever fellow."

"I wasn't about to waste another opportunity."

If Rose had ever really been displeased by his boldness, she seemed to have gotten over her pique. She gave Gil a smile that reached all the way to her eyes, and settled in for a proper chat.

Shirley was pleased to find that he need not contribute much more than the occasional question to keep the conversation rolling. He might have liked to know a bit more about Gil's flying, but for once, Gil's mind was elsewhere. Despite having known one another only a short time, Gil and Rose had any number of stories to share, many of them featuring the exploits of mutual acquaintances or the perpetual challenge of matching up off-duty hours. Shirley's foray to the bar to secure another round did not appear to interrupt the flow of their chatter. He was able glean a few particulars of Rose's background — that she had grown up in a comfortable London suburb, but had an independent streak wide enough to see her working as a telephone operator when the war broke out. She had a passion for radios and for dancing, noting that it was a pity that the WAAF uniforms didn't have much swing to them.

"There's a dance at the village hall later tonight," she noted. "I don't know whether the band is any good, but as long as they can keep a beat, we can make something of it, can't we?"

Gil nodded enthusiastically, then slid out of the booth when Rose excused herself to powder her nose. She pushed through the crowd, collecting admiring glances and a few cruder propositions as she went, turning tipsy flyboys aside with a barbed smile.

When she had disappeared through the door leading to the washrooms, Gil turned eager eyes to Shirley.

"So what do you think?"

"Think?"

"Of Rose!"

Shirley let him dangle a moment, taking a swig of his beer before smirking. "I'm not sure you can keep up with her, Ford."

"Oh, I can."

"You might hurt yourself."

"I really like her," Gil groaned, lolling over the table. "What should I do?"

Shirley grinned into his glass. "Sorry, Ace. This is really not my area of expertise."

"Come on," Gil pleaded. "I don't want to botch this. Give me some advice."

"About women?" Shirley coughed.

"About . . ." Gil lowered his voice conspiratorially, darting a glance toward the washroom door ". . . taking things a bit further . . ."

There was no swagger to him at the moment, just the earnest avidity of someone who truly wanted to do something well. Shirley wished he could help, but what on earth was he supposed to say?

"What makes you think I know the first thing about it?"

"You always have good advice."

"I'm sure you've gotten plenty of advice on that particular subject."

Gil squirmed against the bench seat, his discomfort reminding Shirley of the two sorts of advice he'd gotten in his own youth. First, from his father, a well-intentioned lecture covering the basics of human reproduction and the duties of a gentleman that managed to be both irrelevant and comically belated. Later, from the other boys in his barracks, crowing tales of a few minutes' fumbling that seemed to provide more pleasure in the triumphant boasting than in the inconsequential moment. Frankly, both sorts had struck Shirley as rather grim, and neither bore any resemblance to the laugh-warm haven beneath Mrs. Lynde's tobacco-stripe quilt.

Across the table, Gil gave a glum shrug. "Dad told me it's alright to go with girls, but any girl worth marrying won't let you get away with anything. She'll keep herself pure."

Perhaps the beer had loosened Shirley's reserve. "That's because your dad is a pig."

Gil's eyes widened at this candid assessment, but what the hell. He was grown man and a fellow officer and there was no sense in withholding counsel that might help him carve a little bit of happiness out of this godforsaken world.

"Look," Shirley said, leaning closer. "I assume you've slept with girls before?"

"Uh . . . just the one . . ." Gil said, hiding in his beer as sweat beaded his forehead.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Uhh . . . yes?"

"Did _she_ enjoy it?"

"Uhhh . . ." Gil stalled. "I think so? I'm not sure."

No use sugarcoating this either. "If you're not sure, the answer is _no_ ," Shirley said comfortably.

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" Gil asked in a harsh whisper, glancing sidelong toward the washroom door.

Shirley took a long, contemplative sip, giving him time to choose his words. How to translate the core of it into practical advice? His own father had distilled everything into some silly rule about keeping your third shirt button buttoned until you were married. At the time, Shirley had bitten his lip bloody trying not to laugh, but now he felt a pang of sympathy for poor old Dad, who was, after all, trying to condense a sprawling principle into a single concrete rule. It was, to Shirley's mind, the _wrong_ principle, but the challenge was the same.

"Alright, you want my advice? Here it is: Keep your fly buttoned until you can bring her off — _consistently_ — in at least two different ways."

Gil had not been drinking, but he choked all the same. " _What?_ "

"You heard me."

The door-ward glances had become more frenzied, Gil's face gone pale and livid in alternating splotches.

Shirley was unmoved. "It's simple. You have a sacred duty to make sure she has at least as much fun as you do."

"But . . . how . . ." Gil spluttered, goggling.

"I'm sure Section Officer Findlay-Stevenson offers plenty of scope for the imagination," Shirley said blandly. "You might also consider asking her for guidance."

Gil seemed to be inauspiciously tongue-tied, but managed to hiss, "Isn't that disrespectful? I don't want to insult her by implying that she . . . that she knows what she's doing . . ."

Shirley swirled the dregs of his pint. "Well I hope to God one of you does."

"But . . ."

Shirley leaned across the table. "Look, Gil, forget all that nonsense about trying to see what you can get away with. Is that really how you feel about this woman? Like you want to steal something from her?"

"No," Gil muttered, barely audible.

"And the purity stuff, too. There are a lot of miserable ideas in the world, and that's one of the worst. Sex isn't dirty. If you both just want a little fun, that's fine. But make it worth her while or don't bother. The question isn't whether you're doing it, but whether you're doing it well."

By now, Gil was beginning to resemble a boiled lobster. Really, if he couldn't even handle an honest conversation, that lovely girl was probably better off without him.

"What if . . ." Gil halted. "What if I'm bad at it?"

Shirley couldn't help chuckling. "You probably will be."

"So what do I do?"

"Practice."

Poor kid looked like he'd been caught in a searchlight. What sort of advice had he been expecting?

"I don't know the secrets to the universe or anything," Shirley continued. "But it always seemed to me that the whole point was to show someone how you felt about them."

"Look at you, the relationship expert," Gil grumbled, conveniently forgetting that he had solicited this advice.

Shirley grimaced, toying with the rim of his glass as he sat back against the cool leather of the booth. "Relationships are a bit more complicated, I'm afraid. If you ever come across any foolproof advice there, I'll be all ears."

Gil shrugged. "Rose says there's only one rule."

"And that is . . ." Shirley was genuinely curious.

"Don't treat her like a lady," Gil said, lips twisting into a rueful smile. "Rose says she's a fellow officer and won't be coddled. It's funny - I always thought you were supposed to treat women like they were precious. But I sort of like it this way. I can tell her anything, even stupid stuff, and she doesn't laugh at me or run off like I thought she would."

"Well, there may be something to that," Shirley admitted.

 _More than half_ was all he'd ever promised Carl. Shirley wasn't afraid of being laughed at, but he had to admit to himself that he didn't treat Carl like the fellow officer he wasn't. He didn't like to burden him.

Across the table, Gil was lost in thought, his expression going through a series of impressive acrobatics. Somewhere between astonishment and consternation, he murmured vaguely, " _Two_ ways?"

"That's a bare minimum passing score, Ford."

"Are you sitting an examination?" Rose chirped at Gil's elbow.

He made an inarticulate sound that could only be described as a squeak.

"Studying day and night, I'm sure," Shirley said, finishing the last of his beer.

Across the street, a band started up in the village hall, the lilting warble of a clarinet beckoning through the open window of the pub. Patrons began settling their tabs and drifting out toward the promised dancing.

"I should get going," Shirley said. "You kids have fun."

"Do you really have to go?" Gil asked.

"Gotta catch the train back."

"Will you come down again?" Gil asked, the boy shining through the splendid young officer. "Soon?"

"Oh, I expect you'll find plenty to do without me hanging around playing gooseberry," Shirley smiled as he stood and pulled on his cap.

Gil scooted out of the booth so that he could offer his uncle an embrace. "Thanks," he said, quietly enough so Rose could not hear.

Shirley did not laugh, though there was a merry twinkle in his eye as he bid farewell to Section Office Findlay-Stevenson.

"Keep an eye on that one," he ordered her.

"It's my job, sir," she smiled.

When he reached the door of the pub, Shirley turned back to get one last look. Gil's head was lowered, leaning in close to catch the words from Rose's freshly crimsoned lips over the bustle and thrum of the crowd. They'd be alright.

*/*/*

Later, under the spreading branches of the enormous chestnut that shaded the passenger platform, Shirley waited to see whether the last train north would actually come tonight. Far down the slope, the door of the village hall opened and closed, opened and closed, the intermittent sliver of light mirroring the crescent moon overhead. Hoots of laughter and the tinny ring of trumpets wafted up toward the tracks.

When the radium dial showed quarter past eleven, Shirley gave up hope of the train. It was probably possible to beg a bed at the aerodrome, wherever that was. He briefly considered hiking back down to the village to see if Gil and Rose were still at the dance, but grinned to himself and decided not to go poking around in dark corners in their vicinity.

Instead, he climbed up into the chestnut tree, a maze of flat black against the star-strewn sky, finding a secure roost in the deep bowl where its several trunks diverged. Settling in, he recalled the old study platform in the apple tree at Ingleside, and Walter's strange desire to sleep on that precarious perch whenever Mum and Dad would permit it. It had always seemed rather foolish to Shirley, especially when there was a perfectly good bed mere yards away. But needs must, and the early morning train would be along to fetch him in a few hours.

Shirley dug around in his pocket for cigarette and lighter, striking the flint twice before it flared. He looked up into the tree, expecting only branches, and jumped when he found two yellow, staring eyes instead.

The flame blinked out as he bobbled the lighter.

Shirley muttered under his breath, fumbling to rekindle the flame. When he did, he found the same two eyes, round and unblinking, regarding him curiously from their perch. A living owl, not a stuffed skin. She tilted her head as if to inquire why any person might want to spend the night in her tree.

"Sorry," Shirley said. "Didn't realize it was occupied."

The owl ruffled her feathers, but did not snap or hoot. She merely stared her yellow stare until Shirley clicked off the light. She was still there a moment later when he lit it again, realizing that this would make a much better letter than the taxidermy, and knowing Carl would want a better description than _a pretty big owl_. Long, upright tufts on the top of her head. Yellow eyes, alive and intelligent above feathers mottled like bark. He recognized her as the same sort that sat at the apex of the glass case in the dining room, but then again, the two were nothing alike.

Shirley felt a familiar urge and reached for his wallet, shuffling the pictures so that Carl laughed up at him from the deck of the _Sweet Flag_. The wavering flame rippled across his face, almost as if the photo moved and smiled on its own.

It would be evening in the Gulf right now. Around sunset, probably. Was Carl on the boat right now? Did he have Muggins with him? Or was he already home, helping Una set the table or maybe even writing a letter? He sent one every week, but wrote every day, adding to the missive in different pens or pencil, often with little sketches of bugs or birds in the margins. Sometimes the letters still smelled of the sea when Shirley opened them. They were full of bits of news, making no distinction between the accomplishments of Bruce's children and the success of this year's puffin fledglings, nor between reporting on his latest letter from Anthony Marckworth and the most fascinating article he had read in an ecology journal. Shirley sometimes lost the plot altogether, but it was all there, everything Carl thought or did or felt or wondered, poured out on the page. He wrote about everything, even about his attacks and the days when he couldn't work because he could not get his mind to settle. He'd taken to walking the shore all the way to Mowbray Narrows and back.

Shirley snuffed the flame and put the lighter away, folding his wallet back into his pocket. He wrote, too. Every week. Short letters, full of nothing. What could he say? Nothing about the work, that was for sure. He'd put in bits about the owl and about this visit to Gil, but it wasn't enough.

 _Look at you, the relationship expert._

If he were home, he would know what to do. That part had always made sense. But keeping a relationship alive just by words? Even the distance between the airfield and the Lowbridge Road had been too much.

 _It always seemed to me that the whole point was to show someone how you felt about them._

Shirley doubted he could do it in letters. Still, he had to try.

* * *

 _20 August 1941_

 _Newmarket_

 _Dear Kit,_

 _Letters are not my preferred medium. I never know what to say. In the old days, I would put in some jokes and a bit of news and just hold out hope that you wouldn't forget me before I could see you again. That doesn't seem like enough anymore._

 _Over the past few days, I've been thinking about these letters. I had a visit with Gil and he wanted some advice - I did my best to give it, though it only made me see where I've been failing. We've always been best in proximity, haven't we? I suppose that's my fault - you're good at keeping up with people by letter. I'm not. I don't even know what to say in person and am happiest when I don't have to._

 _Very hard, then, to say anything worthwhile in a letter. I meant to make this one all about the owl I met last night. I had to spend the night in a tree and I found myself in company with an owl nearly as big as Mugsy, with long tufts sticking up out of its head and huge yellow eyes. I meant to fill up this page with that because I don't know what else to write except that I have to write something because if I don't ,you won't know that I'm thinking of you and wishing I could be in two places at once._

 _Every letter I send you is full of nothing. I can't write about my work, and not just because of the censors. I never know how much to tell you, knowing it upsets you to hear it. At the same time, I wish I could tell you how I love it. At the risk of sounding conceited, I am good at this and it feels good to be doing something important that not everyone can do. I really do think I'm helping to win the war, but it's more than that. These past two years, I've felt useful for once, after so long just biding time, fiddling with inconsequential projects and always counting days til Kingsport. At the same time, I know there's nothing likely to bring you joy in hearing that. What can I do, then, but write about owls so that I'll have something to fill out the space between Dear and Yours Truly? It would be a kiss if I could manage it, but I can't and am at a loss for substitutes._

 _Yours Truly,_

 _Shirley_

* * *

 _30 August 1941_

 _Lowbridge, PEI_

 _Dear Shirley,_

 _Write more letters like that one._

 _You so often tell me the end of things - you'll have a whole silent argument in your head and weigh all the considerations and come out with something at the end, already decided. You rarely let me hear any of the in-between. Thank you for sharing it this time._

 _I had an interesting conversation with Anthony a few months back, mostly about him and Edith. He said something I've been thinking over ever since, about loving without jealousy and finding happiness in a loved one's joy. I thought of it again when you wrote that I would not rejoice in hearing about your work. I suppose you're right - I hate this war and all wars and I hate that you are in it and away from home and doing things you cannot write about. But neither can I rejoice in knowing that you feel that you can't share your happiness with me for fear of my reaction._

 _In the last war, it was enough just to get an envelope with your writing on it. It meant that you were alive and safe and even if there was nothing but a few words on a single sheet, that was enough because nothing could ever come between us, could it?_

 _Now you write me bits of nothing and I'm grateful to know you're well, even though your letters are so much less than half. They scare me as much as the things you can't write because there's nothing in them but distance and obligation._

 _But that last letter wasn't empty, not at all. Is it strange to say I smiled when I read it? You put something of yourself into it and that's all I've ever wanted. More like it, please._

 _I know we won't really solve anything between us at a distance. You're right: distance does not suit us. But write me more letters like that and you don't seem quite as far._

 _Love,_

 _Kit_

 _P.S. Though I suppose there is room for a leeetle news in your correspondence. Why on earth did you spend the night in a tree?! T.C.M._


	52. Brave Enough

**Brave Enough**

* * *

October 1941

* * *

 _Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?_

 _When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?_

 _Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?_

 _And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me._

-Matthew 25:37-40, KJV

* * *

"Two sugars, Bruce?" Una asked, hand poised over his teacup. She hated that she had to ask, but Bruce was busy with his own life in Cherry Valley with Agnes and the children and his congregation. These days, Una counted herself fortunate if she saw him twice in a season, though perhaps that would soon change. True, he had only come to preach in the Glen St. Mary church these past two Sundays because Father was getting over a cold, but Miranda Milgrave had told Una that Betty Macalister had told Laura Davis that the Ladies' Aid liked Bruce's preaching very much and there were rumblings that perhaps the congregation might call him if Father ever did decide to retire. There were those who were set against it, on account of nepotism, but even Deacon Reese had been heard to praise Bruce's text this morning, and the ayes were openly toasting their inevitable triumph.

"Better make it one," Bruce apologized. "I hate to take any at all when I'm visiting in the congregation, with everyone trying to scrimp and save, but it's easier to pretend I prefer one than none at all."

This speech elicited an approving chuckle from Father Daniel and a second spoonful of sugar from Una.

Ordinarily, Rosemary would have presided over the manse tea table, but she and Carl had gone with Agnes to release half a dozen starched-and-ironed young Merediths into Rainbow Valley after a whole morning on their very best behavior.

"You'll be alright among the conclave, Una?" Carl had asked, nodding at the gathered clergy as he bounced baby Joan on his hip.

"Of course," she said. "After all, Daniel's my guest; I can hardly abandon him and run off to the forest."

" _Who's_ your guest?" Carl asked, a merry spark in his eye as he turned to gallop down the lawn, Joanie shrieking her delight all the way.

Una might have called a reproach after him, but she was blushing too furiously to manage, a state of affairs that continued vexingly through the initial tea-table pleasantries and discussion of the morning's sermons.

"You did very well, Bruce," Father croaked, a generous helping of honeyed tea allowing him to speak, albeit softly. "An excellent choice of candidate text."

"It wasn't a candidate text, Father," Bruce protested. "You'll be back in your pulpit as soon as your voice recovers."

"I'm quite enjoying the respite," Father smiled. "More time to read."

"What was your text?" Father Daniel asked brightly.

Bruce's dark eyes kindled with an enthusiasm that made Una refill cups all around. "Matthew 25:13," he said. " _Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh_."

Father Daniel nodded solemnly. "Indeed. It behooves us all to think on preparation in these uncertain times."

Una took a sip of her tea, swallowing her own contribution on the subject of Matthew 25:13. She never heard it without remembering Faith's conversion in the terrible summer of 1918, when she had been so lost she had stopped affixing her name to letters. But that was Faith's story to tell, not Una's, so she took a slice of apple cake and kept her own counsel.

"What was your text today, Father Caldwell?" Bruce asked, all polite earnestness.

Father Daniel grimaced. "Proverbs 12:22, I'm afraid. I hadn't planned on it, but there's been a kerfuffle in the congregation lately. I haven't pinned it down yet, but there's an awful lot of whispering, and I thought it prudent to remind everyone that _lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but they that deal truly are his delight_."

"Goodness," Bruce blinked. "I do hope it isn't anything serious."

Una concurred most heartily. _Something_ had happened at choir practice on Thursday, she was sure of that much, but she had always skirted the choir's troubles as much as possible and didn't like to meddle. Still, the problem — whatever it was — was quickly metastasizing along unpredictable lines. Why, just this morning, she had found Zoe Maylock crying in the cloakroom after the rest of the choir had gone home, even her sisters.

"That was always one of my standbys as a parent," Father offered. "Not that any of you children were much given to telling fibs. Certainly not the two of you."

He smiled indulgently at Bruce and Una, the latter of whom felt her stomach twist painfully. Certainly, Father had always taught them that it was a very wicked thing even to _act a lie_. It had been an irreproachable lesson, and yet, Una had found that Father's absolute certainty had made it harder for her to ask him for guidance when she began to encounter its limitations.

"I remember when Mary Vance came to us," Una said quietly, commanding the undivided attention of all. "I told her that it was a _dreadful sin_ to tell a lie, and she said that she would get an awful beating if she didn't lie sometimes."

"Who is Mary Vance?" Father Daniel asked.

"Mary Douglas now," Bruce explained, having heard the story all his life. "She owns the dry goods store with her husband. She was a home child who ran away from a cruel household over-harbour and ended up here. Una and Faith and the boys helped her and fed her until she went to live with Miss Cornelia."

Una blushed under the smile Father Daniel bestowed on her, in which approbation and admiration were blended with pride and not a little affection.

"And you taught her not to lie?" he asked Una gently.

"I did," Una whispered, "but I was wrong, and she was right all along."

The three clerics paused at this, cocking their heads and looking absurdly like a triptych depicting the same expression in three successive stages of life.

Father Daniel was first to find his voice. "Wrong about lying?"

"Yes," Una said simply. "I told her she shouldn't lie, not even to avoid a beating. I don't believe that anymore."

Bruce blinked his surprise, dark eyes wide and round. "Truly, Una? A lie may spare pain temporarily, but in the end, _the Truth shall make you free_."

How to explain to Bruce? He was a man now, and a minister, and must have seen enough of the world to know how complicated it was sometimes. But then, Bruce had always had a stark sense of right and wrong, and had once believed — heartbreakingly — that even the Kaiser might be redeemed if only he could be made to see the truth of the suffering he had caused, and feel it for himself.

"If the world were just," she said slowly, "people would have nothing to fear by telling the truth. But it isn't, and I would rather tell a lie that keeps someone safe than a truth that puts them in danger. Mary Vance never wanted to lie, and once she was safe at Miss Cornelia's, there wasn't any need anymore. But I made her cry, telling her she'd go to hell for lying to Mrs. Wiley, when the only thing the truth would have brought her was a whipping. That was wrong. It was wrong of Mrs. Wiley, but it was wrong of me as well, to make Mary think that she was damned for keeping herself safe."

Bruce looked to Father for reinforcements, but found him staring into his teacup, his shoulders slumped and looking every bit of his age. Father Daniel looked thoughtful, but not away.

"Don't you think, Miss Meredith, that we must be brave enough to tell the truth, even when it might cost us dearly?"

She would have liked very much to agree with him. All summer, in their visits and lessons and gardening, they had found accord in nearly everything, clashing only when it came to the unresolved awkwardness of their farewells. In those moments, Una found it difficult to look Father Daniel in the eye, preferring to scurry away rather than confront that particular incarnation of the Truth. This was different. She met the kind brown eyes without fear, braver speaking of others than of herself.

"I think a lie told out of mercy is not a sin. At this very moment, there are people fleeing danger and persecution and other people sheltering them at very great risk, and I only hope that if I ever found myself in such a situation, that I could be brave enough to lie as they do."

"But Una, be reasonable," Bruce said. "We must teach people facing everyday problems, not hypothetical Nazis."

"Nazis aren't hypothetical."

"But they aren't _here_. If they were, people would rally and stand up to them, of course! But that would be an extraordinary circumstance, not everyday life."

Una chewed her lip. It was not her way to court confrontation, but she had to make Bruce see. At her elbow, Daniel gave a little nod, encouraging her to speak.

"It's easy to imagine what we might do in a time of extremity," she said carefully. "But I suspect that we would all go on doing just what we are doing now, for good or ill. Perhaps heightened by an emergency, but not essentially changed."

Bruce frowned over this, shaking his head slowly. "Canada isn't Occupied France," he said, looking toward Father for affirmation.

Father did not look up from his cup. Una felt a pang of compassion for him, but this was not the time to spare someone's feelings with a lie.

"I don't suppose there was much difference to Mary Vance when she was a child," she said. "Nor to anyone who lives under implacable injustice."

"You may have a point," Father Daniel conceded, drawing Una's attention away from Bruce and refilling her cup. "Though I wouldn't recommend making it the topic of your _Pastoral Ethics_ essay."

"No," she smiled. "I've already written an outline."

"What is your subject?"

"Matthew 25:40," she said, crinkling her eyes in Bruce's direction. " _Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me_."

Father cleared his throat, the rasping of his voice worse than it had been earlier. "Perhaps when it is finished, you would make a copy for me? I should very much like to read your thoughts on it."

Una ducked her head in what might have been a nod.

* * *

 _Odd Duck_ was flying heavy tonight. With two passengers in the back and a full load of tightly-packed canisters, the engine was working near capacity. Especially at this altitude. Higher up, the thinner air would offer less resistance, but Shirley couldn't risk being spotted. The engine noise was a concern, but at this height, he was less worried about someone raising the alarm than he was about colliding with hills.

Yes, he was right on target. The lazy Somme glimmered as it snaked through the dull black of fields and forests. All he had to do was follow it past the all-too-familiar switch-back curves between Amiens and Saint-Quentin, and then turn north, looking for the rendezvous point somewhere down there in the impenetrable dark.

Everything was different now, for all it was the same. Shirley wasn't out hunting German planes anymore; in fact he hoped never to see one. He needed to deliver his cargo safely and pick up another.

Shirley never knew exactly who the passengers were. That wasn't his job. This pair had materialized mere minutes before takeoff: a bluff, chinless boy wearing the coarse jacket and trousers of an agricultural laborer, and a tall, square-lipped man in his fifties who looked as if he knew his way around a knife. They did not speak to Shirley and he did not speak to them, only exchanging nods when it was time to saddle up.

Now their fates were all inextricably intertwined, hurtling invisibly under the glow of the luminous moon. Whether the passengers were English-born SOE officers going to collect intelligence or French partisans trained for recruitment and sabotage, Shirley could not have said. But whoever they were, he was flying them into the very cauldron of the volcano, and not intending to bring them back out again.

The French Resistance would send a reception committee to the landing site to pick up the agents and the precious supplies. At the briefing this afternoon, Wing Commander Grayson had shown Shirley the unencrypted version of the wireless message that had been sent from London to communicate operational details to the French:

GROUND RABBIT MICH THREE ZERO ONE PLI THREE BEARING FOUR KMS NORTH EAST BIDARRAY FOX TWELVE SIGNAL LETTER ROSALIE BBC MESSAGE INFLUENZA STOP

A muddle, maybe, but it was all there, all the information that would guide him safely there and back again. The landing site's code name, Rabbit, and its coordinates on the Michelin grid. The partisans would listen to the BBC at noon to hear the code word _influenza_ ; if they heard it again at 19:00, they would know that the meteorology report was clear and the operation was a go. Landing information was there, too, the bearing and approach, and the signal letter his reception committee would flash from the ground when they heard his engine. All Shirley had to do was reckon his way close enough for them to find one another.

Ahead, the Somme began its frantic looping and turned sharply south at Péronne. That was the landmark. Shirley swung _Odd Duck_ into a gentle northward turn and began to tick off other signposts. The Canal du Nord, the Bois d'Havrincourt, all just where they were supposed to be.

Shirley thumped his fist against the canopy, letting his passengers know that it was nearly time. Altitude was still a delicate balance: at 3,000 feet, he could see more of the countryside at once, but might miss the pinprick light of a torch flashing signal letter Rosalie: _dot, line, dot_ ; at 1,000 feet, the light would be clearly visible, but the margin for navigation error was much tighter. Shirley trusted his maths and dipped down low.

It should be here. Somewhere here. Just use your eyes. _Road. Road. Pond. There._

Out of the stygian shadows, a tiny light that was really a letter that was really a secret sign. Shirley took his own torch in hand and opened the canopy to signal back. _Dot, line, dot_. Yes, it's me.

The first time he had flown a mission like this, the next part had taken his breath, making him feel for an instant that the Lizzie had dissolved around him and left him suspended over the chasm of space with no support. Now, with a couple of runs under his belt, it still gave him gooseflesh.

Below, the only free lights in France flickered into existence out of the void, marking a vast triangle like a fallen constellation. In the barren field, the reception committee was holding their torches aloft, welcoming Shirley to Ground Rabbit. They had been there all along, unseen, waiting for the signal to reveal themselves to him. In an instant, the featureless ground had become a runway, the solitude of night flight had become a gathering.

Sometimes, the guide-lights were red instead of white, and sometimes they were actual torches — gnarled and sappy branches set alight when there were no batteries to hand. In every case, they pointed toward the signal letter light, indicating the direction of the wind so that Shirley could land into it, shortening the distance he needed to touch down.

This was the moment. So much planning and preparation, so much risk to so many, and now it was up to Shirley to deliver what was promised.

He circled once to find his heading, then brought _Odd Duck_ in low and slow. The machine was an extension of himself, under his control as completely as his breathing and the long, brown fingers caressing the controls. He felt its purring pulse in his palms and in his thighs where they pressed against the seat. Slower, slower. It was essential to go gently. Easing the throttle, Shirley sighted along the triangle and positioned himself just so. There was not much altitude left to lose. Closer, closer, until the ground surged up to meet him and he kissed down tenderly, coming home to earth.

This runway was better than most. No large stumps or rocks, the pasture land flat and free of plowed ruts. _Odd Duck_ juttered and spat as Shirley reined her in with plenty of room to spare. He did not cut the engine — no time for that — but taxied in a blunt arc, wrestling the recalcitrant Lizzie for every degree of the turn, coming to rest facing back the way he had come.

Many things happened at once. The passengers threw off their harnesses and clambered down the ladder bolted to the fuselage. Shirley released the supply canisters, letting them thud to the ground. A dozen phantasmal figures emerged from the gloom and seized the cylinders, carrying or rolling them away into the night. Two new passengers climbed up into the compartment, so swiftly that Shirley did not notice whether they were men or women, old or young, wounded or well. It didn't matter. Time was short. A successful Lysander operation never spent more than three minutes on the ground.

One of the passengers thumped three times on the back of Shirley's seat. Ready to go. No need to start the propellor, as it had never stopped. Just a deep breath and a shudder in time with _Odd Duck_ as she picked up speed and then they were lifting free, France falling away under the unburdened carriage, climbing now, and sailing over the trees, north again, and gladly, for England.


	53. Mr Pelham's Funeral

For Excel Aunt, who called this one a while ago.

* * *

 **Mr. Pelham's Funeral**

* * *

October-November 1941

* * *

"Handkerchief?" Father Daniel asked, producing a neatly folded square from somewhere under his cassock and passing it along the pew to Una.

Una had her own handkerchief tucked away in her pocketbook, but it was the gesture that counted and she accepted with a watery smile.

Up in the pulpit, Mr. Arnold had just finished preaching Mr. Pelham's funeral sermon, and was nodding to the Methodist choir director to start in on "Safe in the Arms of Jesus." Mr. Pelham had outlived most of his own set, but he had been jolly and generous, and his neighbors did not find themselves inconvenienced when it came time to sing him home.

Una blew her nose on Father Daniel's handkerchief and kept it, vowing to launder and return it later in the week. It was awfully strange to have him beside her during a service, steady and solid, rather than presiding over the altar. Strange, but not unpleasant. He had a fine singing voice, clear and unadorned, with a comforting sort of rumble that was not discernible at a distance greater than inches. When he offered her an arm to lead her out after the pallbearers at the end of the service, Una gave both her hand and a firmer smile.

The New Methodist Graveyard was too far to walk, so the mourners piled into their cars and wagons to follow the hearse in procession over the flame-tipped hills. Father Daniel had deemed Jenny insufficiently dignified for such service, and had borrowed Shirley's truck, that is to say Carl's truck, or whoever's truck it was, the point being that it was black and available and did not make too loud a noise nor force Una to cling to Father Daniel's back in a way that would surely have stolen the show if anyone had observed it. Instead, they sat side-by-side again, the priest apologizing as his unpracticed driving sent the truck lurching along behind the Newgates' wagon.

"Mr. Arnold preaches very well," Father Daniel said by way of opening conversation. "Do you know him well?"

"He's always been friendly with Father. And I know his son Fred slightly."

"Fred," Father Daniel said thoughtfully. "He's the one with the . . . ah . . ."

Una looked over to see him tapping his nose apologetically.

"Don't try to make me laugh at a funeral," Una pleaded, biting her lower lip to keep from doing just that.

"No one will see as long as we're in the truck," he shrugged. "Besides, I don't think anything to do with Mr. Pelham should be too solemn."

Una tended to agree, but was prevented from saying so by the sudden staggering of the truck as Father Daniel overestimated a turn and jerked the wheel back sharply to compensate.

"Sorry!" he yelped as Una slid across the bench and nearly into his lap.

"It's perfectly alright," Una assured him, though she scrambled to put a decorous distance between them as soon as it was possible.

Really, it _was_ perfectly alright. Unavoidable. Momentary contact that meant nothing, even though Una could still hear her pulse rushing in her ears long minutes later. They rode in silence the rest of the way, Una bracing herself at every bump in the road and Father Daniel apologizing as a red flush crept up past his collar.

When they reached the graveyard, Una took Father Daniel's proffered hand with determination to demonstrate the perfectly-alright-ness of everything. She did not flinch nor jump away, but held his steady fingers for a moment longer than necessary, just to prove that nothing whatever was amiss. He squeezed back reassuringly and guided her carefully over a gully clogged with sodden leaves.

The New Methodist Graveyard had not yet mellowed like the old. Instead of curious inscriptions and antique names that conjured romantic fancies, the little plot of earth was home to memorials whose edges were still sharp. It did command a lovely view, though, with the slope clothed in autumnal splendor dropping away toward the sparkling blue of the harbour.

The mourners took their places around the open grave, with Rev. Arnold at the head and Dennis and Jane Pelham at his right hand. The pair looked as dour as ever, though Una could hardly fault them for dismal affect at a funeral. Indeed, it was a model affair from start to finish, with all the proper obsequies as Mr. Pelham was laid to rest in firm and justified hope of everlasting life.

The scandal came later.

Una had lingered behind the other mourners so that she might say a private prayer for Mr. Pelham without inconveniencing anyone. Most of the others had already departed for the repast when Una's solitary petition was interrupted by voices raised in anger.

". . . _no such agreement_ . . ."

". . . _what right do you think you have_ . . ."

Una and Father Daniel both turned back toward the road, where Dennis Pelham and Archie Newgate were shouting at one another, with Amelia and Jane poised to enter the fray. They hustled over as quickly as possible, Una slipping on the wet leaves as Father Daniel pulled ahead to interpose his person between the combatants.

"What seems to be the trouble?" he puffed, holding up placating hands to stay both parties.

"The house is ours!" Archie growled. "His father sold it to me and let me pay him back in installments."

"He did no such thing!" Dennis spat. "You're renters and I'm perfectly within my rights to sell the property as I see fit!"

Una reached Amelia just as she was about to sally forth under full sail, catching at her arm to restrain her. There must be some misunderstanding here, and it wouldn't help matters to escalate.

Father Daniel looked from one reddened face to the other, gathering both breath and wits. "Am I to understand that Mr. Pelham wishes to sell Mr. Newgate's house?"

" _He can't!_ "

" _I can!_ "

"Gentlemen!" Una jumped a little as Father Daniel deployed his voice at full volume to quell the squabbling. "Please, begin at the beginning, Mr. Newgate."

Dennis Pelham looked things not lawful to be uttered of Archie Newgate, but held his peace as he spoke.

"Amelia and I came to pay our respects, all good and proper, to old Mr. Pelham for all he's been so kind to us these many years. The old man ain't even cold yet and this bloody . . . sorry, Father . . . this ill-mannered fellow comes up to me and says he owns my house and means to sell it! I told him the truth: his father sold the house to me twenty years ago and has let me pay it off a bit at a time ever since. It will be ours free and clear in 1944, and this . . . this . . . _person_ has no right to sell it!"

"I have every right!" Dennis countered. "I have a deed to the property and there's no other paperwork, just a handshake deal. It will never stand in court!"

Una goggled — surely this couldn't be true — but one look at Archie Newgate's face confirmed that it was.

"Now, Mr. Pelham," Father Daniel implored, "this is hardly the time . . ."

"The sooner the better," Dennis interrupted. "I want them out so I have time to find a buyer before planting. The land is poor, but the house is sound, and once we get some competent tenants, it will bring a good, reliable rent."

Amelia was shaking with fury, Una's slim hand on her arm doing nothing to placate her rage. Archie looked stricken, initial disbelief solidifying into horrified realization. Neither was in any fit state to negotiate, even if they had had a hand to play.

"I see . . ." Father Daniel stalled. "In that case . . . well . . . I know you'll want to do everything by the book, Mr. Pelham. So the Newgates will . . . ah . . . await the letter from your attorney. With the official notice of eviction. And a notarized copy of the deed, of course."

Dennis Pelham blinked and looked ready to say something snappish, but Jane cut in.

"Indeed. We will send the papers over as soon as they are prepared."

She took her husband's arm and steered him away from the confrontation, walking purposefully toward their Chrysler. Una watched, astonished, as they drove off to receive the community's condolences and agree that yes, it was a terrible shame to lose the old man.

"What will we do?" Amelia whispered. "It's our home."

Una did not know what to say, so she squeezed Amelia's hand and said nothing. But that did not mean that she was not thinking.

* * *

 _7 November 1941_

 _Newmarket_

 _Dear Kit,_

 _Just received your last. Thank you for sending me that clipping from the Guardian about the graduation at Camp Borden. It's the sort of thing that doesn't make it into the papers here, but it's good to see how the boys are getting along. Thank you more for the postscript. Of course I do and no, you shouldn't write such things, as I do not like to burn any of your letters. Though I am still up to the task of memorizing the important bits._

 _Every day, it gets colder here — too cold to sit out in the gardens and read now. Grayson says I should get down to London or take a trip to the shore when I am not on duty, but I'm content to stay back and practice my French and write letters - very long ones, as you can see. And I walk the gardens. The little red squirrel that lives in the walnut tree by the grotto isn't so little anymore. Do they hibernate? I passed along your regards._

 _Today, one of the junior pilots played a good prank on us before he went on leave. I've mentioned the stuffed birds that plague us in our billet — they're everywhere. Well, this kid got his hands on some colored paper and rolled little dunce caps for all the owls. They don't look so fearsome now. They remind me of the time you tried to convince Mugsy it was her birthday. I think there is still a speck of ossified frosting on the kitchen ceiling if you look closely (above the dish hutch)._

 _A letter came from Gil this week and one from Sam as well. Gil's had his fourth victory, another Me 109. He sounded apologetic that it wasn't more, but I told him the truth, which is that it's a damn sight harder to shoot down these duralumin kites than the canvas-and-kindling ones we flew in the last war. That might not be good for Gil's numbers, but it's awfully good for his neck, and mine as well. Rest assured that these machines can take a real beating and still come flying home safe._

 _I hear from Sam that he is still at the training camp near Basingstoke. It might not be Hell, but it sounds a lot like Purgatory. They've just been sitting around in the mud a whole year. I suppose we should all be glad there isn't more for the infantry to do, but I'd go spare. At least I have my missions to keep me feeling useful. Sam's cheerful enough, though. The Royals put on a lot of sports, evidently. He says he never realized war would involve so much baseball. We don't get up to much by way of sports here. The boys are very daring poker players but imprudent enough that I generally leave the table with more than I brought. They all think they can draw to the inside straight and of course it never works._

 _May get to see Gil and Sam soon. Sylvia's determined to conjure something approaching Christmas, which certainly would be a feat if she can manage it. I'll be awfully glad to see her, too. I miss Aster House and evenings on the sofa with you reading all your letters and Mugsy trying to steal things off the coffee table._

 _Everything is fine here. I miss you of course, and think of you every time I see a small creature. There aren't so many rats around our billet, which is clean and snug. Perhaps the aviary has scared them off. Rats or no, you're never far from my thoughts._

 _Yours Truly,  
_ _Shirley_

 _P.S. I strongly suspect that you already know the answer to the question in your last and ask it only to amuse yourself by imagining my answer. I should not give you the satisfaction of knowing how delighted I was to bid Grayson adieu when he went to London for the week and left me some measure of privacy for once. S.J.B._

* * *

 _20 November 1941_

 _Lowbridge, PEI_

 _Dear Shirley,_

 _Allow me to begin by conveying greetings from your dog, who is currently asleep on my feet. This is very good for warmth but not for mobility, so I have no choice but to write you a good long letter. Not even my usual patchwork, but a proper letter from beginning to end. You may read it to the squirrel if you like, though if you do, you should leave out the dog part. They don't hibernate, by the way. She should have enough nuts stored up for the winter, but would probably appreciate a bit of apple or carrot from time to time if you're feeling neighborly._

 _Last Sunday, I went with Una to her church festival. We missed the Maylock sisters, who have apparently broken up their singing act. It's too bad; they were very good. I said hello to Mrs. Maylock at the cider stall and she glared at me fit to kill. I haven't the foggiest idea why, when we are only on nodding acquaintance anyway, and Una doesn't have any guesses either. I was dragooned into being a tie-breaking judge in the pie contest (thankfully Mrs. Maylock was not one of the entrants). It was very good for my spirits, but not for my digestion._

 _Lately, Una has been pulled into another sticky situation. You'll remember the Newgates, our neighbors down by Pelham's Pond. Well, Mr. Pelham died a few weeks ago and now his son is trying to evict the Newgates so he can sell the farm. I can't say why — the land is poor enough, though I suppose it is a fine, sturdy house and might do for someone who wasn't too serious about the farming. Archie and Amelia swear that Mr. Pelham sold the house to them on the installment plan, but he was never really one for official paperwork. Never even left a will, though he was unwell for a long time. Mr. Pelham (the younger) has said that the Newgates must vacate the property before the first of February or he'll have the law on them, though he hasn't sent over any official papers yet. I don't know what they'll do, but Una is fretting over it. I suppose she and Father Daniel will come up with something. I have no doubt the whole family would end up here if we had the space, but we can hardly host a family of five for dinner, let alone for the winter. Their house is twice the size of ours, and it will be difficult for them to find another place half as nice in their reduced circumstances._

 _My love to Sylvia if you do see her. I hear from her every once in a while, but gather that Matron's work is quite taxing, even if the Canadian boys have nothing to do but play games and march about. I know she'd be glad to clap eyes on you, and I wouldn't mind a corroborating report, for all you claim to be fat and idle._

 _You may be glad to hear that my own work is going very well. I don't plan on sailing in December and am thus happy to declare a whole year without a single unplanned dip in the Gulf. I gave a lecture in Charlottetown earlier in the month (the miraculous recovery of the Brant geese since the Eel Grass Blight of '31. They've learnt to eat sea lettuce instead - isn't that clever of them?). I'm going to give another in Kingsport in March - not just to Prof. Michelson's class, but a real public lecture in one of the big lecture halls, with advertising and everything. I just have to choose a subject. Not superclutches, I'm afraid, though my notes are getting to be significant enough to add up to something. I'm not sure what to do about them exactly. Perhaps an article. I'm still mulling it over. Anthony says that people deserve to know about the diversity of God's Creation. I think he is right, and that such an article might do some good, but I confess that I fear for my job if I write it._

 _Last week, I made a last visit out to the Jubinvilles, wanting to see them one last time before the weather turned. They're awfully worried about the situation on St. Pierre and Miquelon. The islands are nominally under Vichy control and the Nazis could be using the radio station there to communicate with U-boats and spy on our shipping. More than that, the islands are crowded with men. France fell so quickly that the French fishing fleet was caught out at sea and didn't know where to go. Many of them holed up at St. Pierre rather than going home. St. Pierre can't feed that many people and it's been a mess trying to get Canada to sell food to a Vichy territory. The Jubinvilles have plenty of friends there, as you may well imagine, and are very concerned. Make no mistake — when the Jubinvilles think that a situation is dismal, you can be sure that it is nearly beyond human endurance._

 _Our own straits are not so dire. There is much talk of rationing, but nothing has been formalized except some restrictions on gasoline. I've garaged your truck out at the hangar for the winter, so you needn't worry about what I'm doing to the brakes. As for food, we'll get along fine. We never needed much meat anyway (I swear Mugsy whimpered in her sleep just as I wrote that). The garden harvest was good this year and we have a whole pantry jammed with pickles of nearly every variety (neither of us can stomach the squash anymore, though Una would never admit it). We are flush with pears this autumn, so Una is making enough preserves to last a year or more, knowing we might not have much sugar by the time next pear season season comes along. I did one last harvest today - those little trees have gotten so big there were a few pears at the top that I had to leave. At least some of our own squirrels may have a fine feast._

 _Very kind of you to assure me that those machines of yours can "take a real beating" and go on flying. I will not ask how you know it. I don't believe for a minute that you do nothing but chat with squirrels and catch up on your correspondence in between hands of poker. I know you can't tell me anything at all about your work, and perhaps that is for the best at the moment. I can imagine you safe always, with your garden and your book and your dunce-cap owls (though I preferred the long-eared owl who shared your tree in the summer). I can guarantee that any time you think of me, I am also thinking of you, and not just because there are so many more planes in the sky now than there used to be. The boys at the Summerside training school keep us company constantly and I would complain of the noise and the disruption to migration patterns except that I always find myself watching them until they fly out of sight._

 _Even Mugsy thinks that this letter has gone on quite long enough. She is yawning and stretching and leaving my feet cold where she covered them. I am very glad to have her with me, especially when I have a bad night. She stays by me and I'm grateful. I think I will be alright tonight, though. All this writing has tired me out and I may be able to fall asleep for once. Have I ever told you how much I envy your falling asleep as soon as you close your eyes? Just another facet of your ability to be where you are, I suppose. I don't mind being where you are either, only it is a bit of a strain when it is only in imagination._

 _Yours truly,  
_ _Kit_

 _P.S. Indeed, it does amuse me. Almost as much as it does to imagine you with a roommate/chaperone while I suffer no similar constraint. I continue with my literary education and hope that you will not mind too much that I have underlined some passages in "From Pent-up Aching Rivers." "Plenty of persons near" and all that._

* * *

Notes:

Sincere apologies to anyone who has messaged me recently and not received a prompt reply. I may finally have bitten off more than I can chew, devoting much of my time these past few weeks to canvassing ahead of election day in the US. But the day is here and there's nothing left to do but watch and wait (after one last round of canvassing today, despite the fact that my voice is completely shot). Tomorrow, I fly off to France to attend some of the 100th Anniversary commemorations of the Armistice. I will do my best to respond to PMs/reviews from now on!


	54. The Platonic Ideal of Home

Content warning: domestic violence

* * *

 **The Platonic Ideal of Home**

* * *

December 8, 1941

* * *

 _Yesterday, December 7th, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan . . ._

 _Yesterday, the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya._

 _Last night, Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong._

 _Last night, Japanese forces attacked Guam._

 _Last night, Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands._

 _Last night, the Japanese attacked Wake Island._

 _And this morning, the Japanese attacked Midway Island . . ._

 _With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God._

\- Franklin D. Roosevelt, December 8, 1941

* * *

Carl clicked off the radio. Beside him on the couch, Muggins lifted her head, nuzzling into his hand for scritches as he sighed.

"It's very bad, isn't it?" Una asked from her armchair. She had kept on with her sewing all through the evening re-broadcast of Roosevelt's speech, silver needle flashing in the firelight as she stitched the French blue cotton for one of her habits. Carl knew she still had one semester of courses left to complete, but none of them had given her any trouble yet. She'd be dedicated as a Deaconess by summer and wear the veil and habit ever after.

"Depends, I guess," Carl said, giving Mugsy's ears some attention. "The Americans are in the war now, with all their manufacturing and manpower. That will be a tremendous help."

 _Stitch, stitch, stitch._

"Will they fight in Europe?" Una asked, "Or only in the Pacific?"

"I expect they'll have a finger in every pie. Though I don't know how much they'll be able to do right away."

The attack on Pearl Harbor was terrible, of course, but it was a naval base. The other places on Roosevelt's list were cities and islands populated by civilians. Carl couldn't honestly say that he had paid much attention to the news of Japanese conquest in China over the past decade. Anthony had, though, having a particular friend from seminary who had taken a post at a mission school in Singapore, and had become increasingly anxious these past few months. Perhaps they would evacuate civilians. Carl resolved that he must write in the morning so that Anthony would have something more comforting to read than the newspaper in the coming days.

"As I understand it, there aren't enough British troops in Hong Kong to hold it long enough for the Yanks to mobilize," Carl said dismally. "Maybe the Commonwealth troops can hang on in Malaya and Singapore, but even there . . ."

A knock at the front door precluded further musings. Carl put Muggins off onto a cushion and made his way through the kitchen and down the hall, trying not to guess why someone might call so late on such a frigid evening. Father had been in good health since his bout of bronchitis and Rosemary as well, and if it was anything to do with Faith or Jerry or Bruce, they surely would have rung in advance . . .

Carl might have run through the possibilities for a week without anticipating the scene that greeted him beyond the front door: Zoe Maylock, looking a sorry sight from unravelling blonde curls to mud-spattered pumps, clutching a caved-in cardboard suitcase. A red mark on one cheek promised to be a nasty bruise by morning.

"Miss Maylock?" Carl gawped before remembering his manners and ushering her into the hall.

"Please," she said bravely, "is Miss Una in?"

Una was, at that very moment, bustling through the kitchen, her sewing forgotten.

"Zoe? Whatever is the matter, dear?"

The girl's face crumpled and she was unable to speak for several minutes, sobbing as Una led her through to the living room. Carl hung back in the kitchen, not requiring Una's instruction to assemble the essentials. By the time the kettle was hot and he'd arranged some shortbread on a tray, Zoe was pouring out an explanation.

". . . know where else to go. I would have called but Pop only gave me a few minutes to pack and I don't have any money and he said I'd disgraced the family and . . ."

"Slow down, dearest," Una said, offering a fresh handkerchief. "Why did he make you leave?"

Zoe gulped, swiping at her nose and flicking a nervous glance toward Carl.

Carl cleared his throat. "I gather Miss Maylock will be spending the night here. Why don't I go upstairs and make up the camp bed in the sewing room?"

He balanced the tea tray on an end table and nodded to Una in solidarity. Truth be told, Carl was very glad to escape the scene and took exquisite care to check and re-check every blanket and pillowcase, devoting half an hour to a ten-minute task. Then he sat a while in Una's sewing chair, looking out past the garden to the row of pear trees standing stark and leafless against a luminous moon just a few nights past full.

When the length of his absence became absurd, Carl stomped down the stairs as loudly as slipper-clad feet would allow and came through the hall and kitchen coughing theatrically to herald his imminent arrival. He was pleased to find the tea and shortbread diminished, and Zoe much composed.

"I've made up the bed," he announced unnecessarily.

"Thank you," Zoe murmured.

"I won't tell anyone anything you don't want me to tell," Una said gently. "But Carl and I would be happy to go up to Ingleside with you. There's no need for you to go alone."

Ingleside?

"I don't know whether I can go at all," Zoe choked. "I just can't face Dr. and Mrs. Blythe."

She couldn't face Jem and Faith? Why not? What on earth did they have to do with . . .

Oh.

Oh, dear.

Carl gaped at Una, who gave the barest hint of a nod.

"Mum and my sisters guessed a while ago, when I was so sick," Zoe went on, tears streaming down her face. "They were upset, of course, but nothing like Pop. I told him tonight and he raged something awful. I can't . . . I can't go through that again!"

Surely she couldn't think that Jem would hurt her? But the girl was obviously terrified and every shadow looked longer in that mood.

"Would it be easier," Una asked, "if Carl or I went alone and talked to the Blythes first? Mrs. Blythe is our sister and I know she'll listen. One of us could go up tonight and explain, and then we could all go over together tomorrow."

Zoe blinked big brown eyes back and forth between the Merediths, her indecision twisting Carl's heartstrings. She was just a kid — a kid who had been turned out by her family and didn't know who to trust or what to do next.

Without overthinking, Carl dropped to one knee and spoke to her on the level. "You don't have to tell anyone anything, Zoe. You can stay here as long as you like. But if you do want to to tell Wally's parents anything, I think you can trust them. I know I do."

Zoe blinked once more, searching Carl's face for sincerity. Evidently finding it, she reached a decision.

"I do want them to know," she sniffed. "It's not exactly a secret. The whole choir knows and I'll bet the neighbors heard Pop shouting. But it would be a lot easier if I didn't have to tell them myself. Would you tell them? Tonight? I'll go tomorrow, I promise, but if they're angry, you could warn me . . ."

Carl put out a hand for Zoe to take. "I'll go if you like. Or Una, if you prefer. Or both of us."

Zoe swallowed. "I'd rather not be left alone here . . ."

Carl gave her fingers a squeeze and rose to his feet. "Then I'll be off. Una?"

"We'll be fine here," Una smiled. "Come upstairs, Zoe, and I'll show you where to put your things."

Thus, twenty minutes later, Carl found himself shivering on the Ingleside veranda, still groping for words when Faith answered the door.

"What's happened?" she asked, going whey-faced at sight of him standing unexpected in the winter night.

"Go get Jem," Carl said, stepping inside. "You both need to hear this."

* * *

The candlelit dining room of the Hampshire Hotel in Basingstoke was festooned for Christmas: sharp-scented fir woven into garlands punctuated with holly and bayberry tapers gleaming in a softer green. It was not yet late — barely four o'clock by Shirley's Radiolite — but it was one of the longest nights of the year and a new moon to boot, so the candles were necessary as well as festive.

Shirley scanned the rapidly filling dining room only to find that Sylvia had already spotted him and was halfway across the floor. He smiled genuinely at sight of her, looking awfully official in her crisp blue uniform with its double-row of brass buttons and starched white collar and cuffs. If any of the onlookers were scandalized to see an RAF officer embrace a nurse-matron right there among the bayberry-lit tables, they were outnumbered by their more tender-hearted peers.

"I'm under strict orders to slap you, you know," Sylvia said, pulling back from the hug.

"I get that a lot," Shirley smiled back.

She led him back to a round table set for five, as yet unoccupied. This had all been Syl's doing, a dozen letters or more flying back and forth across three counties, trying to find a day when the Blythe Expeditionary Force could all meet for a proper Christmas dinner. As usual, Shirley's schedule had been the most forgiving. The next full moon wasn't until January 2, and he was quite at liberty to spend December as he pleased, provided he made it back in time for his briefing.

The kids had been harder to pin down. Fighter Command kept on fighting, Christmas or no, and it was the thirteenth labor of Hercules to pry both Gil and Rose out of the RAF's clutches at the same time. Eventually, Rose volunteered to cover both the Christmas and New Year's Eve night shifts in exchange for a week's leave in mid-December. She was eager to introduce Gil to her family in Croydon, by which Shirley understood that Gil had passed his exams. The newly promoted Flying Officer Ford was no less enthusiastic about presenting Section Officer Findlay-Stevenson to such members of his family as were convenient.

"This is quite the place," Shirley said, taking a seat by Sylvia's side and appraising the spread of crystal and china.

"I don't suppose fancy dishware goes bad in wartime," she shrugged. "But it does go empty. I had to find a place that would come up with a Christmas dinner worth eating, even if it is mostly made of parsnips and margarine."

It had cost a pretty penny, as Shirley knew well, having insisted on covering the bill and subsequently seeing the quote from the hotel. But it was the least he could do after Sylvia had gone to all the trouble of arranging things, when Shirley certainly wouldn't have bothered.

"Thank you for thinking of this," he said, squeezing her hand fondly. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

She made a dismissive noise and would have protested more if the kids had not walked in at that very moment.

The Hampshire Hotel was quite used to hosting officers of many nations and ranks. The trio of young officers poised on the threshold were certainly not the most distinguished, nor the most senior, not even on this particular evening, but they were nonetheless striking enough to draw more than a few interested glances. Gil Ford, all gold and blue with the swagger of the hotshot pilot he really was now; Sam Blythe tall and vivid in the brilliant scarlet dress tunic of the Royal Regiment of Canada; Rose between them, her own crisp WAAF blues as impressive as her Cheshire-cat grin. They looked like a Madison Avenue poster for Life itself.

Shirley and Sylvia rose to greet them with hearty handshakes and back-slapping hugs. Gil introduced Sylvia to Rose as a family friend who had been a fixture of Ingleside Christmases as long as he could remember. This was true, technically speaking, but Shirley still gave Syl a reassuring nudge of knees under the table when they reclaimed their seats.

The young fry chatted away, telling of their journeys and their duties and the very successful sojourn to Croydon, which had evidently featured something of a comedy of errors regarding the Findlay-Stevenson spare room that ended with Gil sleeping on a camp bed in Rose's younger brother's room.

"We got on like a house afire," Gil reported. "Though he was awfully disappointed when I told him that if he wanted to grow up to be a pilot, he'd need to buckle down in geometry."

"Not quite what a thirteen-year-old wants to hear when he's dreaming of Spitfires!" Rose giggled.

"No, but it's the truth. I'm sure I'd have flunked trigonometry ten times over if Uncle Shirley hadn't slapped a sextant in my hand one summer and made me navigate the old Flying Boat like bloody Magellan."

Sam threw his head back and laughed. "You always tried to pawn off navigation on Wally until that time we ended up halfway to Labrador. Uncle Shirley just sat there the whole time letting us get more and more lost until we were in real danger of running out of fuel."

They went off on a round of do-you-remembers that was only interrupted by the arrival of a fragrant carrot soup that may have been an economical choice, but was nonetheless a tasty one. Rationing was in force, but the hotel had managed to scare up a scrawny goose and there were potatoes and winter cabbage and flaky rolls made with convoy-carried Canadian flour, along with a small but much-appreciated dish of real butter.

Shirley was more than a little flummoxed when the table unanimously assumed that he would carve the goose, never having been the head of any household.

"I'm sure you'll be better with a blade, Sylvia," he protested.

But she smirked and handed him the carving knife and he managed not to disgrace himself.

Sometime after everyone had tucked into seconds, Gil asked, "What news from Ingleside, Sam?"

It was a predictable question, but Sam rapidly turned a shade of crimson that no wool-dyer on earth had yet achieved, though many had tried.

"Ah, it's the famous Meredith poker face!" Gil teased.

"Meredith?" Rose asked.

"Sam's mum, my Aunt Faith, is a Meredith. So's my Uncle Jerry — the one who's a judge. They're quite famous for turning every shade from cheese-green to the fetching shade of magenta you see before you. Sam here is one of 'em, which would make him a terrible bluffer if he weren't already square as a saltine. Isn't that right, Sammy?"

Sam looked imploringly toward Shirley, who was not afflicted with the Meredith malady of wearing one's emotions like a marquee, much as he loved it. Yet, he was familiar with the tidings from Ingleside and fancied that he saw the shape of Sam's troubles. Ah, well, if someone had put it in a letter to Sam, it probably wasn't much of a secret. Not that it would stay secret for long in any case.

"News indeed," Shirley said impassively. "I understand that there will be a new baby at Ingleside in the spring."

"A . . . baby?" Gil wrinkled his nose. "Whose?"

"Zoe Maylock's."

Gil may not have been a Meredith, but he did an admirable job of adding to the chromatic diversity of the table, face going as pale as the whites of his bulging eyes.

"Really?" Sylvia, far more composed, had clearly not yet heard the news. "And she's at Ingleside?"

"Who is Zoe Maylock?" Rose asked.

"My brother Wally's girlfriend."

"I see," Rose breathed.

"Is she alright?" Gil asked, eyes still round.

"I imagine she's not having the jolliest holiday," Sam shrugged. "But she's safe at Ingleside."

"Does Wally know?"

"Dad says that they wrote to him. But he's at sea, isn't he? It isn't as if they get regular mail call. And even when a letter reaches him, what can he do about it? He won't be home again for ages."

Gil swore under his breath.

"I have no doubt that Wally will do right by Zoe," Sylvia said comfortably. "My understanding is that they were all but engaged last summer."

"But she's at Ingleside?" Rose asked. "That's Wally's parents' house, isn't it?"

Gil nodded, but shrugged his ignorance.

Shirley had had enough of the Socratic method and cut directly to the chase. "My understanding is that Miss Maylock has been turned out of her parents' home. She went to Aunt Una for help because she feared that Wally's parents might be of the same mind. I'm sure there is a long story, but the short version is that they weren't, and both Miss Maylock and the baby will be residing at Ingleside for the foreseeable future."

Sam nodded. "Dad wrote that he nearly had to shut Mum up in the pantry to keep her from storming off to Lowbridge and giving the Maylocks one of her signature _explanations_."

"It's very good of your parents to take her in," Rose said softly. "Not everybody would."

"Dad would never turn anyone away from Ingleside, especially not family," Sam said with all the confidence of an adoring son. "The Blythes are quite famous for clannishness. You watch — Mum and Dad will treat Zoe just like one of their own."

Shirley felt Sylvia's stiffness beside him and pressed her knee again. She attempted a grateful smile but did not quite manage.

"Are they happy about the baby?" Gil asked.

"Course they are," Sam said. "Surprised, maybe — Dad said he wasn't expecting to be a grandfather before 50 — but I got the impression that Mum and the girls are already fixing up the nursery."

Gil shuddered. "Still. She'll be the talk of both the Glen and Lowbridge. Wally better get his ass back to port and marry her. I wouldn't put it past your Dad to kick _him_ out if he doesn't."

"Nobody gets kicked out of Ingleside," Sam said, buttering another roll. "And I wouldn't worry in any case. Wally's been dead gone on Zoe since . . . well, for a long time. And he'll do the right thing."

"Everyone loves a baby," Sylvia added. "Especially in times like these, it will be good to have a little one in the house."

Gil agreed. "Mum always said that Jims was the silver lining to the Great War."

"Who is Jims?" Rose asked.

The old tale of war babies and soup tureens carried them through pudding, confirming the younger generation in their belief that Ingleside had always held its arms open wide.

*/*/*

Later, when the kids had said a dozen thank yous and gone off to catch the eastbound train with promises that they'd look after themselves and one another and write as often as possible, Shirley and Sylvia walked arm-in-arm toward the 1st Canadian General Hospital. It was a dark evening, what with the blackout and and the new moon and snow flurries blowing in from the west. The task of putting one foot securely in front of the other took most of their attention, with little left over for conversation.

When they reached the hospital, Shirley headed toward the door, but Sylvia steered their steps toward a little garden where the first flakes of snow were already melting into the path.

"I know you have a cigarette somewhere," she said.

Shirley obliged her, lighting one for each of them as they took shelter in a little gazebo.

"I've never been back to my parents' house," Sylvia said without preamble. "It wasn't as bad as it could have been. I already had Aster House. I was never homeless. But still."

"I'm sorry," Shirley said, and was.

"My sister sent me a letter once," she continued. "Just to tell me her kids' names and that my brothers had both married and had children as well. I wrote her back, but never heard from her again. That was, oh, '33? '34 maybe?"

What Shirley wanted to say was _fuck them_ , but what came out was, "They don't deserve you."

She laughed a single puff of smoke. "I can't say Ingleside was always the most comfortable place either. It got better once it passed to Faith and Jem, but it's funny to hear the kids talk about it like it's the Platonic ideal of home."

Shirley took a long drag on his cigarette, the glowing tip providing a tiny circle of light.

"It's only because they don't know Aster House," he said.

Sylvia tapped her ash on the railing and chuckled. "You know, I still feel a little leap of excitement this time of year. It's time to air out your room and drag Mugsy's bowl out of the pantry."

Shirley knew just what she meant. Christmas was something to endure, but the mingled scents of fir and cloves signified the imminent respite of the New Year. Aster House, snug and warm, where he felt like he might understand a little of how Carl felt about fresh Island air.

It was dark enough that Shirley did not scruple to put an arm around Sylvia's shoulder and pull her into the shelter of his overcoat.

"It seems churlish to say I've always been terribly jealous," he said.

"Of who?"

"You, of course. And Di. Of Aster House."

That got a proper laugh that rippled through her chest and into his. "Not of Ingleside?"

"Nah. Jem can keep it."

Sylvia dropped the butt of her cigarette and ground it under her shoe. "You know, when we get home, you're welcome to stay as long as you like, up to and including forever."

"Don't think I haven't thought about it."

Sylvia pulled back far enough that she could reach up and caress Shirley's cheek with a non-slapping hand. It was too dark to see her expression in any detail, but Shirley knew her well enough to fill in the gaps with mingled affection and concern.

"You've got to actually make it home first," she said quietly.

"I will."

"You'd better. You're a damn fool for coming here in the first place."

"And you aren't?"

She sighed. "It's not the same. I spend my days drawing up shift schedules and making sure the men don't get too fresh with the Sisters. God only knows how you spend your time."

He couldn't tell her anything, so he opted for a technical truth. "Reading, mostly."

"I'll bet."

"I do. I've read nearly all of _Aesop's Fables_ in French."

"Ah, well, in that case, you'll have the war won by Christmas."

They looked out at the swirling snow, only dimly visible beyond the gazebo, falling faster now. Somewhere out there, Hong Kong and Leningrad were under siege. Great armies faced off at Moscow and Tobruk. The sleeping giant of American industry had been shocked awake and was just now blundering to its feet. Somehow — after more than two years of work and worry — somehow it seemed like it was only beginning.

* * *

Notes:

Today is the 100th anniversary of the 1918 Armistice. I'm in France, attending a memorial ceremony at the Canadian Memorial in Vimy. Thank you all so much for encouraging me as I research and write this universe. I have learned so much about WWI (and WWII) in the past year and it's all down to this community (particularly kslchen - special thanks for all your help and sharing your knowledge and enthusiasm, even now that you are on to happier things).

Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing, especially Flavia! I'm glad you liked that line from Susan :)


	55. The January Moon

Content warning: war-related violence

* * *

 **The January Moon**

* * *

31 December 1941 - 2 January 1942

* * *

 _For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up._

Ecclesiastes 4:10

* * *

Una had never mended a satin evening glove before, but this was an emergency. Ceci had brought it to her moments ago, tears gathering as she showed the rip, and Una had reassured her first and figured out a plan of attack later.

Ceci was calmer now, helping Portia shimmy into peach silk on the other side of the Ingleside living room. With five girls to prepare for the New Year's dance at Lowbridge High School, none of the bedrooms was half big enough, and the living room had been converted into a makeshift salon and dressing room. The chairs and sofa were draped with crinolines and sashes, tables strewn with powder puffs and combs. Faith had gone off to find more safety pins; Nan was trying to do _something_ with Jemmy's hair; Jem and Jerry had shut themselves in the library at the first rustle of petticoats and hadn't been heard from since.

Over by the window, Dellie Meredith frowned, shaking her glossy, dark head as she surveyed her handiwork. "No," she said decidedly, "that isn't right at all. I'm going to take the pompodour down and try Victory rolls, Zoe. You've got the face for them."

"You really think so?" Zoe asked, examining her blonde updo in a silver-backed hand mirror.

"How will you get them to stay up?" asked skeptical Jemmy, wincing as Nan shoved another bobby pin in tight against her scalp.

"Magic," Dellie answered comfortably. "And a fistful of pomade."

There had been some talk of staying in. Zoe had not left the house socially since she had come to Ingleside, and the family had kept a quiet Christmas. It had been a much-diminished holiday table, with the Fords staying in Toronto with an ailing Leslie and the Andersons trying to maintain a routine for their nieces and nephews. But the Charlottetown Merediths had come for the holiday and stayed the week, doing all they could to boost everyone's spirits. Dellie and Portia had exclaimed over the Lowbridge High New Year's dance quite as if it had been the hottest ticket in Town, and set about preparing for it like generals planning an amphibious invasion. Zoe had been adamant that she didn't want to spoil the fun for the others, urging them to go on without her while they counter-urged her to come along.

"Why shouldn't you go?" Jemmy had asked. "If anyone's cross about it, that's their look-out, not yours."

In the end, Zoe had admitted that she really did want to go, but appealed to Faith to give the final word.

"Of course you should go if you want to," Faith said stoutly. "You certainly won't be alone."

Indeed not. The Blythe girls and the Merediths formed a butterfly phalanx fearsome enough to shield Zoe from any direct insult. She was one of the family now and anyone who forgot it would see what it meant to be on the outs with the Blythes and their glamorous cousins from Town.

Una had spent much of the morning helping Nan make over an evening gown with a generous skirt.

"We'll just move the waistline up a smidge," Nan explained over blue chiffon. "And if that doesn't work, we can put on a front-peplum like the one Ginger Rogers wore to the Academy Awards. Very chic."

Una nodded and stitched, glad to follow Nan's lead in matters sartorial.

"There!" Dellie said, stepping back to admire the high twin rolls atop Zoe's head. "Shake your head side-to-side, lovie, and see if they stay."

Zoe obeyed, finding that the elaborate hairstyle did indeed stay, and dazzling the room with her smile. "Thanks a heap, Dellie," she said, hugging the girl who would spend the night introducing herself as a cousin of Jemmy, Cecilia, and Zoe.

There was perfume to spritz and lipstick to blot and last checks all round to make sure that everyone had matching shoes and all imaginable accessories. Faith swooped in to rescue Portia from a near-disastrous encounter with a teetering bottle of lotion; Nan inspected Dellie with as much attention to detail as any sergeant preparing for dress parade. Una handed Ceci her mended glove and was rewarded with a soft embrace of pink satin and nervous delight.

"Have a good time, dearest," Una urged her niece. "Promise you'll dance a little?"

"If someone asks me," Ceci said quietly.

Una smiled. "If they don't, they're awfully foolish."

Jemmy leaned over the back of Una's chair and grinned at her sister. "If they don't, you go ahead and ask them yourself!"

A theatrical knock and shout from the hallway interrupted any reply Ceci might make. "Is everybody decent in there?"

When the girls chorused their yeses, Jem and Jerry came in with broad smiles and extravagant compliments all around.

"We'd better be off," Jerry said, checking his watch. "Didn't it start at eight o'clock?"

"You can't make an entrance if you're on time, Daddy," Dellie protested with a long-suffering sigh.

"I'm sure you ladies would make a splash whenever you chose to appear," Jem grinned. "But I do believe sometime before midnight is traditional."

There was a last fluttering round of goodbyes as the girls pulled on coats and only such hats as would not ruin the last hour's efforts and piled into the waiting Cadillac. They waved to Una and Nan and Faith as they rolled down the drive, their smiling faces illuminated by the full moon.

"Do you really think they'll be alright?" Una asked as the merry party disappeared down the hill.

"Jem and Jerry are going to stay," Faith said. "My girls know they'll be right outside in case there's any trouble."

Una nodded, though she worried that the sort of trouble the girls were likely to encounter wouldn't be the sort that could be solved by fathers riding to the rescue.

"Don't worry, Una," Nan said, taking her arm as they turned back toward the debris-littered living room. "The girls will take care of one another."

Una gathered up a pile of hair ribbons from the sofa and began to pack them into a hatbox. "No word from Wally, Faith?"

"No," her sister said wearily. "Or, rather, we've had two letters, but they're both from before ours could have reached him. But it hasn't been a month yet. Letters often take that long to get to him and back again."

That was true, but not particularly comforting. Wally was far away and the baby would certainly arrive at Ingleside long before he did.

No one had any doubt that Wally and Zoe would be married at the first possible opportunity. But Zoe's pregnancy had still been the talk of two towns all month. None of the Maylocks had even dared show their faces at church since it had become common knowledge. The Blythe pride was rather more audacious than fragile, and Jem and Faith had welcomed Zoe into their pew the last three Sundays just as they had last July. The baby would arrive in the spring and Una was already fretting over its christening. Surely Father would have no qualms over baptizing his own great-grandchild, would he? Perhaps quietly? That might be best, especially if the Maylocks refused to attend.

"How are your neighbors?" Nan asked Una, changing the subject as she folded a stack of unchosen undergarments. "Have they received the paperwork they were waiting for?"

"They have an eviction notice," Una said sorrowfully. "They have to be out by February first. But Mr. Pelham still hasn't sent over the deed or any of the other paperwork we requested."

"What will you do?" Faith asked.

What indeed. They were running out of time and options were thin on the ground.

Una sighed. "If it comes to it, I'll take the girls and Amelia and Archie will go to the rectory with Georgie until we can find something more permanent."

"Oh, Una, no!" Faith protested. "You don't have the room to take in two teenagers! Don't even dream of it!"

"What else can I do? They can't freeze to death."

Nan put down the crinoline she was folding and took Una by the hand. "As soon as you get that paperwork, you bring it straight to Jerry," she said. "If there's one thing I've learned about the law from hearing so much of it over the years, it's that you can spin any technicality into a delay. And if time is what you need, trust Jerry to find it."

It was a slim hope, but Una grasped at it gratefully. With a delay, they might be able to find a house the Newgates could afford. Or at least keep them housed snugly until warmer weather arrived. In truth, she would hate to see them split apart at a time like this. Their strength was in one another and as long as no one was left on their own, hope was not utterly lost.

"Thank you, Nan," Una said, squeezing her fingers. "I'll do that."

* * *

Everything about the mission felt wrong right from the start.

First, Shirley discovered that he had foolishly left the snapshot of Carl in the front of his wallet. He never forgot to shuffle it to the back; what had gotten into him? Grayson was not much interested in Shirley's ritual cleansing of his pockets and had gone off to find coffee, but he might return at any moment. Shirley doubted Grayson pawed through his wallet while he was out on missions, but it was possible. He tugged at the photo too fast and felt it tear. Cursing under his breath, he pulled more slowly, drawing the crease-softened paper out of the frame and trying to re-insert it behind the photo of the boys and Muggins. It flopped and resisted, but he managed to shove it out of sight just in time. The wallet went into the box of his effects, along with his identity disks and lighter. He'd reclaim them when he returned, as he always did.

Then there were the agents, who were late arriving and took longer than usual to ready themselves for the flight. When they finally shuffled out onto the runway, the taller one gave Shirley an apologetic shrug, which went unreturned. The welcoming committee was out there in the cold and snow, surrounded by Nazis, and Shirley didn't like to make them wait.

"Sorry, Blythe," Grayson apologized as the two agents climbed aboard. "I know how you like to do things by the book."

 _Odd Duck_ didn't like the cold either, taking a long time to start, and then being uncommonly recalcitrant even for a Lizzie, as if she were begging to stay home under the blankets rather than going to school. Shirley wrestled her onto the runway anyway, coaxing and manhandling in equal measure. The ground crew had attempted to keep the racecourse clear of ice, but there were still slick patches of hard-packed snow glistening in the frigid moonlight. No elegant takeoff this time, but Shirley got them flying just the same.

One of the passengers attempted to chat as they flew, using the intercom to ask about the flight time and weather conditions and all manner of things that were immaterial to someone whose job was just to sit quietly and wait. What did it matter if the flight time were two hours or two hours and fifteen minutes? They'd get there when they got there. Somewhere over the Channel, Shirley clicked off his headset so that he could concentrate.

The landing zone was a hayfield northeast of Amiens. Shirley hated Amiens. It was a place of near-disaster and he avoided it whenever possible. But it was his guidepost tonight, which meant seeking it out. Fine. It wasn't hard to find.

In the countryside northeast of the city, Shirley dropped down lower, checking his speed and compass as he ticked off landmarks. They were close now, and he thumped the canopy to alert his passengers.

When they reached the coordinates, Shirley checked and double-checked his notes. He was certain of the spot, but there was no signal letter. Mission rules stated that he should abort after a second pass, but he gave it a third just in case. After all, the torches might be on the blink after waiting so long in the freezing January night. His patience was rewarded by the _Dash Dot Dash_ of signal letter K.

The triangle of lights sprung up and Shirley sighted along it, bringing _Odd Duck_ in nice and easy. She touched down and for a single moment it seemed like everything might be alright after all.

Then they hit the first log.

It was the welcoming committee's job to clear the landing site of debris and fill in ditches as best they could, making the runway as smooth as possible. Here, someone had strewn the ground with impassible logs that jolted the Lizzie, nearly sending her toppling over on her propellor. She hit another and spun, only to send her tail wheel crashing into a third. Shirley was thrown violently against his harness, cursing as he fought for control of the machine.

The next jolt sent the plane bouncing and Shirley leaned in, pushing for more speed rather than less. If someone wanted him to stop here, he'd be damned if he'd cooperate. There wasn't enough clear ground to pick up enough speed to take off, and the tree line at the far end of the field was coming up too fast to clear anyway. Shirley aimed directly for it, jolting along the uneven ground at a spine-jangling speed until he was only yards from the tree cover, but a good long way from the original landing site.

When _Odd Duck_ shuddered to a stop, the gunfire began. A row of bullets slapped across the thick glass of the canopy, leaving starry pockmarks. Shirley ducked, reaching for his escape kit and unbuckling his harness in one motion. The passengers were shouting to one another, but it was impossible to make sense of their voices amid the crackling fire of the guns. A lot of guns. Not just aimed at the Lysander, or at least they weren't all hitting it. This might be an ambush, but someone out there - many someones by the sound of it - was fighting back.

Well, there was no way this Lizzie was taking off, not from this ground. Orders were to burn her and Shirley fumbled in the escape kit for matches, too focused even to mutter that a lighter would come in bloody handy at the moment, Grayson, you paranoid twit. His found them, along with the flask of gasoline stored under the seat.

There was another burst and a cry of pain from one of the SOE agents.

 _Out._

 _Get out._

Shirley looped the strap of the escape kit across his chest and reached up to release the canopy. The passengers already had their hatch open and were scrambling out, urging one another on.

Something pinged very close.

For a moment, Shirley thought he had let the canopy close on his hand. But no, the hand was swinging free, not caught. It seemed oddly distant, as if it were floating away from his body.

Underwater, everything is slower. Movement, sound, the way light sways in undulating waves, rather than darting about. Even the sun is muted, murky and indistinct as it filters down from the surface. Shirley sat in the cockpit, bullets darting around him like silver minnows, the thick glass canopy above his head rippling with spreading cracks. He thought perhaps that it was the sun glimmering blue off the dark stream cascading down his arm. He held what was left of the hand up to the circle of light, slowly, wondering at the unfamiliar silhouette as blood pumped and pumped down over his wrist, bathing the radium dial in glowing red.

It took another wound to wake him. A ricochet sliced through the shoulder of his flight jacket, singeing along the flesh, not a punch but a burn. Shirley shook himself. He was still alive and that meant he still had a chance to get out of this mess.

The hand was bleeding too badly to ignore.

 _Wrap it._

Shirley plunged his sound right hand into the escape kit, coming up with the first soft thing he touched — the bloody beret — and shoved the stump into it, tucking the end into his watchband. It wasn't a lot of pressure, but it was the best he could do. There was no time. Another machine gun burst shattered the weakened canopy, raining down razor droplets of glass. Shirley held his breath, eyes closed protectively against the shards. When they subsided, he reached up, slid back the canopy frame, and hauled himself out on the side that seemed to be taking less fire. Braced on the struts, he spilled gasoline over the interior.

 _Goodbye, Odd Duck._

Shirley used one match to light the whole book and tossed it in, igniting a whoosh of skyward flame.

Shirley let it burn, jumping to the ground and unholstering his service revolver as soon as his boots hit the snow.

One of the agents was sprawled on his back at the bottom of the ladder, his face a caved-in pulp glistening in the bonfire light. The other was limping away toward the forest, hunched and certainly wounded, since he wasn't running full-out. Shirley caught up with him in three strides and pulled the man's arm over his shoulder, half-dragging him to the tree line.

There were shouts all around and fire from every direction and no choice but to just put your head down and _go_. Go toward what, God only knew, but _away from here_ was good enough.

Shots rang out at close range, rifle fire, not machine guns. Shirley fired back, emptying his revolver into the night, always moving, urging the SOE agent to move his feet a little. The man groaned, churning his legs imprecisely through the frosted leaf-litter.

"Come on," Shirley muttered through clenched teeth. "Gotta keep going."

They did, somehow, crashing through the underbrush until they came to a moonlit stretch of road. It seemed deserted, so they hobbled across, skirting a ditch and following the outside border of a stubbled field to a copse of trees.

"Stop," the agent gasped.

Shirley paused, sides heaving, gauging the sound of the gunfire. They had left it behind, but there was no telling who might be following them in silence. He let the man down, propping him against a trunk.

"Where are you hit?"

"Dunno," said an English voice. "Hip, I think."

"Can you keep going?"

"No. Leave me."

Shirley gritted his teeth, labored breaths hissing in and out. "Sorry, pal. Can't let you be captured."

"Won't be," he said. "It's either the Frogs or the cyanide tablet for me."

Shirley wondered grimly whether the man meant it. If he did, it might be safe to leave him. That seemed an awful risk to take, besides being inhumane. If he survived long enough for the Germans to find him, he'd be turned over to the Gestapo.

Seized by a sudden burst of inspiration, Shirley shrugged out of his flight jacket. The grazed shoulder protested at the movement, but it seemed to be working well enough.

"Here," Shirley said, draping the jacket around the man's shoulders and shoving his arms through despite feeble protests. "The name's Blythe, just like it says on the jacket. It might be enough uniform to send you to a POW camp."

"Not bloody likely," the man said, dark foam trailing from the corner of his mouth.

Shirley looked down in surprise and saw the stain spreading across the man's abdomen. Not the hip, then.

There was an exchange of gunfire close — too close — maybe just on the other side of the road. Shirley tensed.

"Go," the man said.

He might have saved his last breath; Shirley was already gone.

*/*/*

Running full-tilt across a meadow and through a patch of woods, dodging trees, slipping in patchy snow, forgetting about the hand, landing hard on it, clenching against a flash of white-hot pain, getting up again, running, running, running.

Suddenly, Shirley crashed into something that was not a tree. Shorter and softer, it tumbled over with a cry, taking Shirley down with it. He rolled, coming up in a crouched position with his service revolver aimed, though he was quite sure there were no rounds left.

The dark shape of another person scrabbled upright before him.

" _Arrête!_ " Shirley shouted, finger poised on the trigger.

The figure did stop, but did not surrender. There was no need, not with the blunt black barrel of a Sten gun aimed directly at Shirley's chest.

A round, youthful face loomed over the thick woolen coat, with a nimbus of dark curly hair escaping from a braid wrapped around her head. A girl.

Shirley dropped the revolver and put up his hands . . . hand? . . . hand and a half? . . . and swallowed a mouthful of bile.

The girl said something low and fluid that Shirley did not catch. When he did not reply, she advanced barrel-first, never taking her eyes from him. She was not very tall, nor very imposing, being somewhat younger even than Shirley had thought at first, but her voice did not waver.

"Pour qui est-ce que tu travailles?" she demanded.

Shirley grimaced, wondering for one wild moment whether he could ask her to write that down for him to puzzle out.

"Je suis le pilote," he said slowly. "Le pilote de l'avion. Je suis Canadien."

The girl wrinkled her nose at this halting introduction. She fixed him with an intent gaze and said something else very quickly that Shirley caught not a single word of. By the time he realized that she had spoken German, the girl had already relaxed a fraction, seemingly reassured to have seen no comprehension register in his face.

"You. English." The syllables sounded as laborious to Shirley's ear as his French must sound to her, but he understood the command.

"Yes, I speak English," he said quickly, demonstrating his fluency. "I'm a pilot in the Royal Air Force. My name is Squadron Leader Shirley J. Blythe."

The girl may or may not have understood any of that, but she gave a nod of satisfaction, apparently convinced that it was more likely that Shirley's native tongue was English than German. She kicked his revolver aside until it was far from his reach, then picked it up and lowered her weapon.

A pair of motorcycles roared down the road on the other side of the meadow. Hard to say whether they were coming or going.

The girl licked her lips, then jerked her head away from the road. "Allons-y."

Shirley didn't have any better ideas. He nodded and they began to run again, side by side.

* * *

Notes:

I speak no French. I've done my best, but please feel free to correct my grammar. I really would appreciate it, especially for the characters who are supposed to be fluent speakers. Shirley's not, so it is ok if his French is as bad as mine!

If you do not speak French either, fear not. I have tried to define important phrases either through context or Shirley's musings. If that isn't enough, try Google Translate. Or just sit back and enjoy an authentic re-creation of Shirley's experience, only understanding a little of what is being said.

I've gone back and revised this chapter a little based on reader suggestions and confusion to make it clearer that the girl is an armed Resistance fighter, not just some random civilian wandering the woods at nighttime, and to clarify that there is a counter-attack going on.


	56. Retour en France

Content warning: medical procedures, though nothing compared to Alinyaalethia's eyeball doctoring or kslchen's _ritsch-ratsch_.

Special thanks to mavors4986 for beta reading my clunky French and making it sound like it was spoken by a human!

* * *

 ** _Retour en France_**

* * *

January 1942

* * *

The little storage space was tiny, barely long enough for the straw pallet pushed up against one dirt wall. The curly-haired girl had prodded Shirley through a barn with the business end of her Sten gun, down a short ladder into a sparsely-provisioned root cellar, rolling aside a barrel to reveal the entrance to a storage compartment. It was difficult to crawl through on one hand, but Shirley managed. No moonlight down here — a lighter would have been _very_ useful indeed — but the girl produced matches and gestured for him to light an old kerosene lamp, warming the hidden room with amber light while she kept her weapon trained on him.

She motioned to Shirley to sit on the pallet, which he did, offering no resistance that might get her thinking that he was a threat. The girl remained standing, feet planted wide, gun at the ready. She looked him over, her gaze lingering on the wounded hand, the bloody shoulder, the aviator boots.

"C'est toi, le pilot anglais?" she asked sharply.

"Oui. Le pilot anglais."

She frowned, then asked a question that contained the words _lettre de l'alphabet_.

The signal letter. It had been . . .

"K!" Shirley flashed the Morse with his uninjured hand for good measure. _Dash Dot Dash_.

She chewed her lip, the whirring of her mind nearly audible as she tried to decide whether this was good enough. If the Nazis had known the site, they would have known the signal letter as well.

Shirley tried desperately to think of something else that might convince her that he was who he said he was. More English? She seemed to be looking at the boots . . . did she recognize them as a flyer's gear? Had this been her first welcome party, or had she been part of others?

 _Others!_

"Soissons!" he blurted.

This startled her, which, Shirley reflected, was not exactly advisable, given the very nasty firearm still in her hands.

"Soissons," he said more calmly. "La pleine lune de decembre. Vous . . . étiez?"

He winced at his own halting French. Was that the correct past tense for _were you there_? The December drop hadn't been far from here. If she had been part of that mission, would she still remember the details?

"Dans la région," she said warily. "Où ça?"

Shirley brought the old map to the front of his mind. West of Soissons, four kilometers northwest of . . .

"Saconin!"

She nodded slowly. "Et la lettre?"

He flashed his hand again. _Dash Dash_. M.

It was enough. The girl nodded curtly and lowered the Sten gun. Shirley breathed in relief as she set in the corner and shrugged off her coat. Underneath, she was dressed for duty: drab canvas trousers, simple shoes, a thick sweater with the neck rolled up to her ears. She must have been tired after such an ordeal, but she did not show it. She turned back toward the pallet, speaking slowly.

"Moi, c'est Mireille."

Shirley caught the shape of the name, but not its specifics. The girl repeated herself and he tried to reproduce the sounds.

"Mee-RAY?"

She giggled, a startlingly sunny sound coming from someone who was threatening to shoot him not a minute ago. She said her name again, slowly, though Shirley did no better on his second attempt at pronouncing it. It was too soft, nothing to grab hold of after the initial M. Unspellable.

"Je m'appelle Shirley."

She crinkled her nose in merry disbelief. " _Cher lis?_ "

"No," he corrected her. "Shirley. SHIR-lee."

She smiled wide enough to dimple. "Ah. Shirley! Comme Shirley Temple!"

"Oui," he grumbled. "Comme Shirley bloody Temple."

Introductions thus accomplished, Mireille pulled the kerosene lamp close and motioned for Shirley to let her examine his injured hand. He unwound it carefully, sucking his breath in through his teeth as he pulled the soaked beret away. The wool clung where the blood was already congealing, but at least the flow had slowed.

It was at least as bad as his first impression of it. A bullet had passed through the palm, just below his ring finger, which dangled shredded and useless from a macerated stump of raw muscle and glinting bone. The little finger was entirely gone, leaving the impression that some sharp-toothed creature had bitten off half his hand.

Though he was sitting, Shirley swayed. Mireille was clucking over the hand, not touching it, but leaning in to get a closer look.

 _Well, at least she isn't squeamish_ , Shirley thought as a wave of dizziness rolled him like the deck of a ship.

"Attendez un peu ici," she said softly before slipping through the hatch and disappearing.

Shirley let his head loll against the earthen wall and took a long, shuddering breath. He had trained for this. _Trust your training_. Alright, what did he need to do?

 _Burn the Lysander_. Check. Vale, _Odd Duck_ , you beautiful old heap.

 _Evade capture_. In progress.

 _Ditch the flight jacket and boots_. He might need Mireille's help with the second part, but half-done.

 _Make contact with the Resistance_. Check. Sort of. Mireille would be able to connect him with others, wouldn't she? Perhaps someone more senior?

 _Return to England, either by Lysander extraction or via Spain._ Well, that was the next step, wasn't it?

Another bout of nausea hit and Shirley realized that no, the next step was finding some sort of medical care. He'd never get anywhere if the hand got infected. He tested the right shoulder, but he seemed to have full range of motion, and it hadn't hindered him earlier. Just a graze, though there was enough blood to soak through the shirt and sweater. It would be fine once it was clean.

When Mireille returned, she had hot water and towels and some clean bandages. She reached for the hand, but Shirley shook her off. This he would do himself. He unhooked his watch and placed it carefully beside the pallet.

 _Supposed to get rid of that, too._ Later.

Grunting in pain, Shirley dribbled water over the ragged edge of his hand, bathing and blotting, staying upright long enough to wrap it securely. When he finished, he leaned against the dirt wall, clammy with sweat, and concentrated on breathing.

Mireille touched the injured shoulder gently, asking permission that Shirley gave with a faint nod. She produced a pair of wire scissors from her pocket and cut open his sweater so that she could sponge and dress the angry red furrow, working methodically, the tip of her tongue poking out as she passed the bandage over and under the injured arm. When the bandage was secure, she wiped blood and dirt and sweat from Shirley's face, the warm cloth a very small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Mireille spoke quietly and Shirley picked through her words, recognizing _dormir_. He doubted he could ignore the hand enough to actually sleep, but it was probably a good idea to rest while he could. He let Mireille help him with his boots and spread a pair of woolen blankets over him when he lay down on the pallet.

"T'es en sécurité ici," she soothed. "En sécurité."

*/*/*

He must have slept because he woke to absolute darkness.

No, not absolute. The faint glimmer of the Radiolite cast a dim, greenish glow like a petrified firefly. Shirley reached for it, retched, tried the uninjured hand instead. He scraped a thumbnail over the dial to remove some of the crusted blood.

1:27

In the morning? Afternoon? Impossible to say. But it must have been after midnight when they'd arrived here — wherever _here_ was — and Shirley felt like he'd slept for several hours at least.

One thing was sure: he was alone. No quiet breathing, no small form huddled in the little room beside him. Wherever Mireille had gone, he'd just have to hope she planned on coming back.

No chance of getting back to sleep, not with the hand throbbing as if it might burst its wrappings. Shirley felt the familiar urge to reach for his wallet, but it wasn't there, and even if it had been, it was too dark to see anything.

Instead, he stared into blankness. Would he be reported missing? Probably not right away. The RAF would know he hadn't returned, of course, but they would try to find out what had happened. The SOE agents were both dead, but there were two more on the ground he was supposed to have picked up. Perhaps they'd send news by wireless.

 _Unless they're dead as well._

And even if they weren't, what would they report? No one knew where he was except Mireille.

 _Will the RAF send a telegram to my parents?_

No. Probably not. Not for a while, at least. They'd want confirmation. When someone went missing, it could take weeks to notify the family. Months, even.

In that case, the only thing to do was to get back to base before anyone at home knew that anything was amiss. Spain was a long way away, especially in the winter, across unfriendly, unfamiliar country. But if he got picked up by Lysander during the February moon, he could send his own telegram from England before Carl got too anxious. The letter he had posted yesterday wouldn't arrive in Canada for a week or two, and then then would only be a gap of two or three weeks before he sent his telegram. That would be alright. Shirley would apologize for the lapse and say he was busy but fine, letter to follow.

 _Hard to explain the hand, though._

Thinking of the hand undid all the work of distracting himself. It pulsed, hot and aching, the pain sharpening into a flash any time he moved. Even perfectly still, it was agony, and Shirley began to think that if Mireille did not return soon, he might need to go in search of help himself.

The thought seemed to conjure her. A beam of light fell across the opening, strengthening as a lantern materialized with Mireille crawling in after it. She did not come all the way in, merely beckoning for Shirley to follow her through the root cellar and up into the barn.

A pearl-gray January sky settled the question of time in favor of afternoon. The barn was not exactly cozy, but the water in the troughs was only frozen around the edges and the warm breath of half a dozen milk cows fogged the air with the scent of last summer's hay. Shirley noted that fewer than half the stalls were occupied, surmising that the rest of the herd had been requisitioned or sold or eaten. No horses either, though chickens roosted here and there.

Mireille led Shirley to the last stall, where light from the open half-door fell across a white-haired man wearing a black coat that was certainly older than Mireille herself. The man smiled and bobbed his head as Mireille made introductions. Shirley did not need words to understand the ancient black bag balanced on a hay bale, nor the gesture by which the man invited him to sit on another.

Shirley did as he was bid, steeling himself not to groan as the doctor unwrapped his hand. The man made gentle sounds as he examined, soothing in the wordless language of caregivers the world over. Shirley concentrated on his breathing and took stock of his surroundings to see if there was a soft place to land if he fainted.

After an excruciating interval, the doctor let go of Shirley's hand and began to unpack his bag. Shirley swallowed when a hinged leather case emerged, fancying he knew what it contained, though he didn't have a French name for it. There was a vocabulary lesson for you. He'd rather not know the word for _bone saw_ in any language, let alone multiple.

The white-haired doctor spoke softly as he displayed his tools, too quickly for Shirley to understand more than the odd word or phrase. _Hand. Do not worry. Good light._ The doctor traced along the back of Shirley's hand, encompassing the base of the dead ring finger, dangling and purple. Of course it would have to go. Was the bone saw even necessary? Taking an objective look at it, Shirley wondered whether it couldn't be dispatched with a simple knife.

Indeed, the doctor selected a smaller saw from his case, cleaning it carefully in a steaming basin Mireille brought down from the house. There was a stout board for an operating table and a pile of clean bandages at the ready, and nothing left to do but get on with it.

"Attendez!" Mireille gasped when Shirley placed his hand on the board. "Vous lui donnerez bien de la morphine, non?"

The doctor shrugged apologetically, but of course he had none. Not after two years of occupation and rationing and the sort of prices people would pay on the black market for even a whiff of anything that took away pain.

Shirley made a mental note to advise Grayson that morphine tablets would be a most welcome addition to the escape kit in future.

"S'il vous plaît," he said to Mireille, then pointed up toward a hook on the wall holding the tack of some long-gone horse.

She did not understand, blinking at Shirley with dark lashes until he mimed biting down. The girl gulped, but took down the harness, finding the end of a thick leather strap and holding it out to him.

He wasn't sure if _grateful_ was exactly the right word, but Shirley was satisfied. He put the strap between his teeth and arranged his hand on the board, where Mireille held it steady, her own hands both soft and strong. Shirley looked out through the barn door, over the snow-spotted fields toward the low winter sun and shut his eyes.

* * *

Jerry Meredith sat behind the vast mahogany desk, rolling a little bronze medal between his thumb and first finger, back and forth, back and forth. He paused occasionally to turn to the next page of the document lying before him on the blotter or to adjust his spectacles. He was taking his time, Jerry-like, which was probably a good thing. Una hoped he might find something useful, though sooner would be better than later. Jerry might have all the time in the world, but Una did not.

Una had never been to Jerry's office at the Charlottetown courthouse before, never having been in much need of legal advice. He'd been so proud to show her around the building, and she had smiled and praised, not stating the truth, which was that the columns and portraits and echoing halls made her feel like a child too small to see over a countertop. That was the point, of course. Jerry was not himself a very imposing personage and relied on the material trappings of his office to convey its power: the voluminous black robes billowing from their stand by the door like the hovering specter of the law itself, the framed degrees on the wall, the heavy gavel gleaming on the corner of the desk. The desk itself was a veritable bulwark separating The Honorable Gerald Meredith from his interlocutors. Una supposed this was a good idea in principle, but it was unsettling nevertheless.

There were a few relieving touches here and there if you looked for them. The cushions propped in each of the two wingback chairs by the fireplace were unmistakably Nan's, though they departed from her usual designs of fruit and flowers to incorporate various patriotic motifs, from clusters of red maple leaves to the heraldic lion of PEI. There were family photographs, too. One photo of the girls when they were small, all frilly pinafores and pearly little teeth, another more recent, poised and pretty in maiden finery at Bea's graduation party. In a place of honor on the desk was a photo of Jerry and Nan standing on the deck of a luxury liner beside Jem and Faith, all of them off on the Vimy Pilgrimage in 1936. They wore the berets of official pilgrims — khaki for the veterans, navy for their spouses — and smiled for the camera.

They had gone that summer, along with thousands of other veterans, to dedicate the national monument at Vimy Ridge, the old battlefield halfway between Lens and Arras. Two pillars of white granite stretching into the sky from the top of Hill 145, sculpted figures representing Truth and Justice and Peace, and a massive base inscribed with the names of over 11,000 Canadian dead with no known burial place. At the front, gazing over a preserved stretch of ground still pitted by grass-carpeted shell craters, stood Canada Bereft, the grieving mother, 20 feet tall and disconsolate, mourning all 60,000 of her fallen sons.

The little souvenir medal in Jerry's fingers bore her likeness as well, with the date of the unveiling: July 26, 1936. A warm day, and sunny. There had been teeming crowds of French veterans and civilians who came to stand beside the Canadians on this little bit of soil that would now officially become part of Canada forever. There had been speeches and prayers and a flyover by the RAF, and when the King released the draped Union Jack to reveal the eternally grieving face of Canada Bereft, the gathered pilgrims had cheered for all they were worth.

Jem probably would not have gone if it had been up to him. But Jerry wanted to, and Jem had taken one look at his face and placed a call to Kingsport to ask the Dean of Redmond Medical School whether there weren't any eager young graduates who fancied a summer's light work by the seaside. They said it had been good to go. Good to see so many fellows from the old battalion. Good to see Canada so honored. Good to bring flowers to the Albert Cemetery Extension for Lieutenant Jack Pringle, row 1L, grave 3.

They had invited Carl and Shirley along, of course. Carl had turned the color of a cave-dwelling amphibian and Shirley had reminded them that, technically speaking, he wasn't a Canadian veteran at all. And though hundreds of Silver Cross mothers had made the trip, feted and honored on their way to see the only grave marker their lost sons would ever have, Anne Blythe, bereft, had flatly refused to participate in any way.

No one had asked Una to go. That was just as well. It saved her having to say no, of course she had no interest in going and why would she? And on the 26th of July, when Dr. Blythe and Father and all the grandchildren had gathered around the radio at Ingleside to listen to the BBC carry the King's words to all Canadians everywhere, Una had slipped alone to Rainbow Valley to sit beneath the Tree Lovers and their bells, tarnished and intermittent these days, but still capable of catching a breath from fairyland every now and again.

Somehow, that all seemed a very, very long time ago.

Jerry muttered something, turning to the last page of the document, then back again, shaking his head.

"You're sure this is an exact copy of the deed?" he asked.

"It's notarized," Una said, pointing to the stamp. "And Mr. Pelham's lawyer sent it over by registered mail."

"Well it's a real mess."

"What do you mean?"

Jerry rose from his seat and ambled around the substantial perimeter of the desk, coming to sit beside Una, which was much better, both for seeing the document and for her nerves.

"See here?" he said, pointing. "Usually, a deed of this sort will include a list of all the major parts of the property. So it will say something like, _this property, comprising all lands, houses, barns, outbuildings, crops, orchards, woodlots, pastures, fields, streams, wells, springs, fences, etc_. Some will even include mineral rights for whatever may be under the ground. But read this. Just here."

Una took the deed from Jerry's hand and read the paragraph he had indicated.

"It doesn't say any of that," she said. "It just says _the nine acres, bounded by the Lowbridge Road, Pelham's Pond, and the stone wall bounding the property of Mr. William Cheever_. But no list."

"I'd very much like to know who drafted this," Jerry said, chortling.

"Why?"

"So I can make sure I don't hire him as a clerk! I've never seen such a shoddy deed. There's a reason why lawyers write out that whole list, you know. It's so that if there's ever a dispute, it's clear as clear can be what is included and what isn't. Who's to say what this deed means? The description of the land boundaries is alright — not perfect, but useable. But what else is included? What about the crops? The water rights? The barn?"

Una gasped. "The _house_?"

"Quite right," Jerry agreed, stroking his chin. "We used to do a bit of property law at the firm, and I'd say that this is a land deed, but it isn't really a deed to the house."

Una gripped his sleeve, hope expanding past all previous bounds.

"Jerry, this is very important. Are you saying that Mr. Pelham _does not_ own the house?"

Jerry frowned, considering. "He'll argue that he does. Or his lawyer will, if the fellow can figure out how to put on his own pants. They'll argue that anything located within the boundaries described in the deed is part of the property. But if he owns the house, I'd like to know why it isn't explicitly included on the deed, where it should be."

"Is there any other way to prove ownership?"

Jerry shuffled the papers in the pile, drawing out a single sheet. "There's the aunt's will. Old Mr. Pelham inherited the property, you see. It says right here, _I bequeath to my nephew, Angus Pelham, my land adjoining Pelham's Pond_. Drawn up by the same chucklehead as the deed, no doubt. No specific mention of the house. And you say that the father didn't have a will? And never drew up a formal agreement with the Newgates for the house payments? What sort of lawyers do they have over in Lowbridge, anyway?"

Una's knuckles flashed white as she held her hope in check just a bit longer.

"So Mr. Pelham could argue that he owns whatever is located on the property," she clarified. "Would he be successful?"

"Perhaps," Jerry said judiciously. "But it would mean a lawsuit and court fees and lawyer's fees, though personally I think this fellow should be paid in acorns for all the good he's doing his clients . . ."

"And what about something that _wasn't_ on the property?" Una interrupted.

"Sorry?"

"If something was removed from the land before the first of February, would Mr. Pelham be able to sue to get it back?"

"He can sue all he likes, but I don't know how much good it will do him. He has a deed for the land. Nothing else. Besides, there's a difference between land and moveable property."

"What is moveable property?"

"Anything that can be carried. Traditionally, under English inheritance laws, sons tended to inherit land — at least the eldest sons — while daughters got moveables: furniture, silver, clothing, livestock, that sort of thing, since they were expected to move with their husbands."

"Is a house considered moveable property?"

Jerry narrowed his eyes. "Just what, exactly are you planning, Una?"

Una hopped out of her seat. She was not so very much taller standing than she was sitting, but tall enough to kiss Jerry warmly on the forehead.

"Thank you, Jerry."

"You're not going to explain?"

Una was already taking her coat and scarf from the rack. "I'm afraid I haven't time. There are only a few days until February first."

"Won't you stay for supper? Nan and the girls will be sorry to have missed you."

Una shook her head, grinning behind her scarf and feeling that she might actually clap her hands for joy.

"I'll come back after this is all over and visit. But I must run and catch the afternoon train back."

Jerry rose from his own seat. "Don't go looking for trouble," he warned with mock severity.

"It tends to find me on its own."

The flashing eyes softened a bit and Jerry reached for his sister's hand. "How are things at Ingleside? Is Zoe alright?"

"Yes," Una smiled. "She's been doing so much better ever since Wally's letter came. He's over the moon and she's been letting the girls talk to her about wedding plans."

Jerry grinned. "Don't let Dellie hear you say that. She's forever clipping things out of magazines. If she gets involved, poor Wally will come home to a wedding that would make Princess Elizabeth jealous."

"That would be lovely."

"I seem to remember some rather nice weddings at Ingleside," Jerry twinkled, taking Una's arm to walk her down the hall. "When the time comes, this one will make old Susan Baker proud, and _that you may tie to_."

Una smiled at the quotation, wondering if Jerry realized how apt it was to invoke Susan as the patron saint of hospitality. She squeezed his arm as he escorted her to the front door of the courthouse and kissed her farewell. As she hurried toward the train, Una patted the papers folded in her handbag, praying quietly for the blessing of St. Elizabeth, Susan, or any other saint who had ever found a way around the rules in the name of mercy.

* * *

Notes:

* _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 16: "Tit for Tat"

To Skybird: I am sending you so much love and encouragement! I'm sorry that things didn't go well with your friends, but know that there are lots of us out here cheering for you. All the hugs. If you ever want to create an account and chat over Private Messages, I'm here for you. And thank you so much for your review - it means the world to me to hear that this story is important to you.


	57. Advanced Homemaking

**Advanced Homemaking**

* * *

31 January - 1 February 1942

* * *

"Atta girl," Carl murmured, stroking the silky black nose of one of Bertie Shakespeare Drew's gorgeous Percherons. All four of the massive horses stood on the bank of Pelham's Pond, stamping their ice cleats, their glossy coats blending with the shifting shadows of the winter night. The swirling mist of their breath caught flickers of light from the bobbing lanterns of the gathered crowd, appearing and disappearing as the beams danced over the icy pond. Overhead, the luminous round of the full moon glowed cool and bright, edging the scene in silver.

"Her name's Violet," one of Bertie's daughters offered, her voice muffled by a thick green scarf. "And these are Daisy and Myrtle. The gelding is Hawthorn."

"Which is your favorite?" Carl asked kindly.

He couldn't see the girl's mouth, but her eyes crinkled in a smile. "Aspen. We left him home, though. He's still young and Papa thought he mightn't like the ice."

"Good thinking," Carl said. He wasn't quite sure he liked the ice either.

Pelham's Pond stretched out before them, flat and frozen, the icy surface obscured by spiraling eddies of white powder that that swirled like riptides. Carl knew the pond ice was good and solid after six weeks of deep freeze. Hadn't the Newgate children been skating every day since Christmas? But kids playing hockey was one thing; hauling a house was quite another.

"Steady there," Bertie Shakespeare called to the men pumping the jacks. "Together, lads!"

With each pump, the Newgate house lifted another quarter-inch off its foundation, rising improbably into open air. They had been at it in shifts since nightfall, several dozen able-bodied men and more than a few women, working a quarter of an hour on, a quarter of an hour off, pulling the house free from its foundation. Youngsters held lanterns beside each of the jacks, while a team of the strongest men positioned thick logs under the structure to act as rollers. Another half-dozen were hard at work on the opposite shore, building a temporary wooden foundation. The plan was to take the shortest path, straight across Pelham's Pond at its narrowest point, rather than going all the way out to the road, then around the pond and back up to the hayfield. As it was, the move would still take all night.

The Newgate family stood near the wagons heaped with their furniture and other possessions. Their new home would be their old home, relocated to the bare hayfield Archie Newgate had been renting from St. Elizabeth's all these years. Father Daniel had given his permission, and no prizes for guessing whose influence had secured it. Now all they had to do was move the house, and the first of February could come as it pleased.

Despite the cold and the dark, the gathering had a festive air. Half of Lowbridge must be here, or at least the better part of the parish, plus the cannery workers and a sizable contingent from Glen St. Mary. Faith and old Dr. Blythe had set up a medical station to see to people's slivers and burns while Jem worked a jack and kept an ear out for emergencies. Mrs. Blythe and Zoe Maylock had several kettles going over a fire pit in the garden, supplying hot water for Miller and Mary Douglas, who were handing out coffee, tea, and biscuits from the bed of their delivery truck. The grunts of workers mingled with the sharp laughter of those on break, punching through the general murmur like fish leaping over river rapids.

It was all Una's doing. All this. Carl continued to pat Violet's nose, but he looked past her massive chest toward the gathered throng, knowing that these were Una's people, every last one of them. Had she ever called in a favor before? Now she'd lifted a finger and every person here had come running, eager to do her any service she might ask, no matter how perplexing.

Carl scanned the crowd for Una. He was not sure he would be able to pick her out among the bundled multitude, but he need not have worried. There she was, standing on the ice a few yards from shore, conferring with Father Daniel, his head bent to hear what she was saying. She wore her long blue coat with the hood up, hiding her face. It hung loosely from her slight shoulders, but the gestures of the mittened hand were unmistakably his sister's.

"One more should do it!" Bertie Shakespeare bellowed.

The jacks groaned with one last effort and the last log slid into place.

"Well done, lads, well done!"

As soon as the last roller was in position, the workers began securing heavy hauling ropes to the beams and joists. The Drew children connected traces for the Percherons, while others set thick hawsers, each long enough for a dozen men to pull together.

"Are you going to pull, Uncle Carl?"

A lantern at Carl's elbow illuminated Ceci Blythe's pink nose peeking out from her scarf.

"Sure am. How about you?"

Ceci shook her head. "Zoe and I are going the long way 'round with the wagons. Jemmy's pulling, though. And Dad, too."

"I'll be sure to get a spot on their rope," Carl smiled. "That way I can take it easy."

There was a giggle from somewhere deep in the wooly recesses and Ceci traipsed away with her lantern.

One of the Drews came to collect Violet, and Carl saw her off with one last pat. Now he had no excuse for standing off to the side, and would have to join in the general commotion, uninviting as the prospect might be. There were an awful lot of people, joking and bellowing and bumping into one another.

On another night, Carl might have been happy to join in, reveling in the boisterous mood, but tonight, everything seemed too loud, somehow, or too close, or too all-at-once. Violet had been a bulwark of calm, but she was gone now, being hitched into her traces by Bertie and his children. It was silly, really, to feel anxious around people he'd known all his life, and Carl was frustrated by his inability to shake the feeling that his shirt was too rough against his skin. He took a slow breath and pressed a hand to his breast pocket for reassurance, wishing there were a more recent letter there along with the wings. But two weeks between letters wasn't all that unusual. Sometimes two or three came together on the same ship. Tomorrow was Sunday, so there wouldn't be any mail, but surely Monday.

"Gather round! Gather round!" a cheerful voice carried above the din.

The crowd responded, arranging itself into an untidy oval at the pond-side, with Father Daniel at the vertex, a small, hooded figure standing steadfast at his side with a lantern. Carl shimmied in between a man he recognized as a veteran from Lowbridge and Jemmy Blythe, who flashed him the easy grin that was her birthright.

"Thank you all!" Father Daniel was saying in his most resonant voice. "Your hard work and generosity will see the Newgate family's home safely to its new location. It is absolutely essential that we all work together as one. Therefore, we will rely on signals from Miss Meredith to coordinate our hauling."

At this, he paused a moment, nodding to Una beside him. "When Miss Meredith's lantern goes UP, we will pull. When it goes DOWN, we will rest. Understood?"

There were murmurs of assent as Una demonstrated the simple maneuver.

"Is there an emergency signal?" asked Mary Douglas. "In case the ice cracks?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Douglas," Father Daniel said patiently. "If there is an emergency, Miss Meredith will swing the lantern from side to side. If that happens, please drop your rope and proceed carefully to the nearest bank. However, we have tested the ice, and it is very thick, so we are confident that it will hold."

It wasn't the first house to be moved like this, Carl knew. It happened from time to time, when a shoreline altered or a new road cut through a property. People at Harbour Head still told the story of moving Captain Malachi Russell's house over the harbour ice the winter after the Saxby Gale scoured the shore, and that was the same year Father was born. But Carl had been in the Russell house often enough, and it was half the size of the Newgates'. It would take a little kindness from Providence to see them through this safely.

As if he had heard Carl's thoughts, Father Daniel said, "Before we begin, let us join hands and pray."

All around the circle, people placed lanterns and tools on the ground at their feet and joined hands with their neighbors. Jemmy squeezed a reassurance into Carl's hand on one side, which he instinctively passed along to his comrade on the other.

"Merciful Father," Father Daniel prayed, "watch over this community as we work together to bless the Newgate family with a secure home. Strengthen our arms and our hearts and bring us all safe to the other shore. This we pray."

 _Amen._

Jemmy kept Carl's hand in hers as the circle broke apart, chattering about the jacks and how Dad had let her have a go under his supervision. They found places on one of the lines, falling in with the others and taking up the heavy rope.

"May I join you, Mr. Meredith?"

Carl looked up, surprised to see Father Daniel twinkling at him.

"No," he said. "I mean, yes, of course, but . . . hadn't you better keep everyone in line?"

Daniel took up a position beside Carl and adjusted his gloves. "Think I'm too old to pull, do you? I don't mind pitching in with the rest. Besides, I'm not really the one in charge of all this."

Carl followed Daniel's gaze out toward the center of the pond. He had expected to see his sister, and perhaps he did, though the sight of her sent a chill _gallopading up and down his spine_ as nothing had since Henry Warren's ghost went creeping over the Bailey dyke in Rainbow Valley days.

Una stood in the center of the frozen pond, a lone figure outlined in silver by the glowing moon. Whorls of snow swirled around her skirt, obscuring her feet so that she seemed to be hovering above the ice, gliding as smoothly and silently as any phantasm. Carl shivered. Was that truly Una, his sweet, gentle sister, rising from the deeps like some silent, vengeful spirit, ready to command a legion with a movement of her hand?

One look Daniel-ward confirmed that Carl was not the only one overawed at sight of Una in the mist. The priest's round, friendly face was arranged in an expression of reverence that had gone past wistful and well on toward open longing.

 _He loves her._

Carl had been teasing Una about Daniel for ages, but there was no joke here. He loved her, plain as anything under the moon, and whether it was the sort of love that found expression in devotional cults or in wedding vows, Carl could not say. But anyone who looked at anyone like that was far, far gone, and no mistake.

Why on earth hadn't he spoken? If Una didn't love him back, Carl would eat his hat. But she spent her evenings stitching habits, not bridal linens, and still meant to be consecrated as a deaconess after the spring semester. What was the problem?

No time to ponder that now. The haulers were in place and attentive, the horses blowing with impatience. Carl held his breath as the hooded form moved, the snow eddying around and over her as she did. In one fluid motion, she raised her lantern high, and everyone began to pull.

* * *

The first hesitant sun of February was still peeking shyly over the horizon when Dennis Pelham's red-paneled Chrysler slammed to a halt in the middle of the Lowbridge Road. Una saw it from the Newgates' kitchen, a view that Amelia had requested specially so that she could always keep one eye on the stove and the other on passersby. Dennis Pelham seemed in no hurry to pass by, however, springing from his car in purple-faced fury.

Una dropped the dishtowels she had been unpacking and raced to the front door. There should have been a veranda there, but it had disintegrated in transit. Thankfully, this had been the only major casualty of the move and the workers had left its crumbling fragments in a pile to one side of the house. Archie meant to build some temporary stairs tomorrow and start work on a new veranda in the spring.

The move had gone as well as Una could have hoped, leaving nothing for the Pelhams but an empty foundation and a few flimsy outbuildings on the worn-out soil. Most of the workers had gone home to their beds, but Una and Carl and a few others had stayed behind to help put things back in some semblance of order.

" _Newgate!_ " Dennis Pelham bellowed.

There were clatters and thundering feet from deep within the house, but Una had been first to the doorway and meant to hold it.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Pelham?" she asked evenly.

"You can step aside, woman, and let me get my hands on that yellow-bellied snake hiding behind your skirts!"

Dennis Pelham's threatening tone was somewhat undercut by the absence of the veranda, which left him addressing Una's knees. She looked down placidly, not deigning to step aside, though she could hear the entry hall filling up behind her and Archie Newgate trying to push his way toward the front.

"Mr. Newgate and his family have vacated your property, as ordered. You have no further business with them."

" _They stole a house!_ " Mr. Pelham shouted, on the verge of apoplexy.

"No one stole anything," Una replied. "If you consult your deed, you will find that the land it describes is right where it should be."

"I'll see you in court, Newgate!" Mr. Pelham shouted past Una's skirt.

"You may sue if you like," Una said, still unruffled. "But I have already presented your deed to my brother, who is a judge in Charlottetown. He assures me that the deed is very poorly drawn and will hardly prove ownership of the house."

" _You!_ " Mr. Pelham snarled, jabbing a finger to within a hair's breadth of Una's leg. "You've cheated me! I'll call the Mounties and have you arrested for grand larceny!"

At this juncture, Una felt the warm, steady pressure of a padded hand on her shoulder. Even if he hadn't touched her, she would have known Daniel by scent — candle wax and garden clippings and something indefinably individual that could never be mistaken for anyone else.

"Mr. Pelham," the priest said, his voice rumbling reassuringly, "this land is church property. I must ask you to leave and not return."

"She _STOLE_ a _HOUSE_ ," Mr. Pelham repeated incredulously.

"And you are trespassing."

"You'll hear from my lawyer!"

"I'm sure we will. Go in peace, Mr. Pelham."

Mr. Pelham went, though it may be doubted whether his departure was notably peaceful. When the Chrysler disappeared over the rise in the road, the crowded hall behind Una erupted into hoarse huzzahs and laughter. Una turned to join in, finding as she did so that she was briefly encircled by Daniel's arm.

*/*/*

When the furniture had been set back in place and enough linens unpacked that the Newgates could sleep in their own beds, Una and Daniel followed Carl down the road toward the little gray house. Daniel had left Jenny there overnight, not wanting to keep an eye on her during the move. He had a sermon to give in an hour, though, Una reflected, attendance at today's service was likely to be sparse given the night's activities.

"No matter," Daniel smiled. "Everyone's done their practical lesson tonight, and passed with flying colors."

"Thank you for everything," Una said, covering a yawn with her mitten.

"You must mean my superior hauling," Daniel grinned. "They might have left the horses home once I entered the lists."

Perhaps he was tired as well, but it didn't show, neither in the merry crinkle around his eyes nor in the schoolboyish bounce of his gait. Una couldn't help but reflect his smile.

"You did quite a bit more than that. You sent Mr. Pelham away peacefully this morning. You kept everyone working together. You gave permission for the Newgates to use the land."

"We'll have to put that in writing, by the way," Daniel mused. "I don't know if I have the authority to sell it to them outright, but I can convince the Bishop to agree to a long-term lease. A formal one."

"Thank you."

"You're the only one who deserves thanks here, Miss Meredith. I couldn't have come up with this plan in a thousand years, let alone raised my hand and had the whole community come running. You must have taken a very advanced course in Homemaking to pull off such a scheme."

"Everyone helped," Una murmured.

"You were magnificent," Daniel said, all teasing gone.

Suddenly, Carl stopped dead in the middle of the road ahead of them and slapped himself on the forehead with an audible clap.

"Goodness, I've left my jacket at the Newgates'! I must have been lost in thought. I'll just run back and get it now."

"Not now," Una frowned. "We're nearly home and you can go back for it after you've had some sleep."

"It's no trouble," Carl said brightly. "There are some important notes in the pocket. Wouldn't want to lose track of them."

"But . . ."

It was too late; Carl was already jogging back the way they had come.

They really were very close to the house. Una and Daniel rounded the bend in silence, their easy banter stiffened in the absence of their chaperone. No birds sang in the winter morning, no leaves rustled, no winds blew. They were utterly alone and unobserved.

When they reached the porch, Una mounted one step before Daniel caught her hand.

"Una, wait. I . . ."

She turned, waiting while he stammered.

"I . . . I have to cancel our lesson tomorrow."

"Oh." They had not been speaking of anything these past few minutes, but somehow this seemed a change of subject. "Tuesday, then?"

"No." Daniel's shoulders slumped. "I mean . . . I can't be your sponsor anymore."

"Oh?" Una felt wrongfooted, as if a crack had appeared in the ice beneath her feet. "Why not?"

"Because . . . your sponsor must want you to be a deaconess. Wholeheartedly. More than anything in the world."

Something was giving way with a groan deep in the frozen foundations.

"You don't think I'll be a good deaconess?" she asked in bewilderment.

"You'll be the best deaconess," he whispered. "But . . . I don't want you to be."

"You don't?"

"No. I don't."

This close, Una saw that Daniel's eyes were a deep, soft brown like coffee with only the smallest splash of milk. Closer, she noticed little flecks of gold around the widening pupils. Closer still, she shut her eyes and saw nothing as she crossed the last little distance.

When Una had tried to imagine what a kiss might be like, she thought perhaps that it might be _warm_ or _soft_ or _gentle_. This one was all those things and she was not disappointed.

However, she had not imagined the searching give-and-take, nor the way her mittened hands flew to caress Daniel's face, nor the leaping thrill as if her body were jumping up through itself and toward him. She had thought that her first kiss would be a kiss and not half a dozen of them, the half-hesitant inquiry of the first followed by the shuddering sigh of the second and a flurry of just-one-lasts after.

When they did pull apart, they did not go far. Una's hands fell to rest on Daniel's shoulders; his fingers were firm on the small of her back, even through the wool coat.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," he breathed.

Una searched around for her voice, finding enough of it to whisper, "Me too."

Daniel tightened his hold, pulling her into him, but not so close that she couldn't look up into his open, round face, chapped from cold, lips parted. He tested his own voice once, failed, and tried again.

"I love you, Una."

There was no doubting his sincerity; it was merely reality that Una was beginning to question. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the excitement of the move or the breathless aftermath of the kiss, but she felt that she was floating away from herself, untethered.

"I . . . need time," she said with a quaver.

"Of course," he blurted. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's been a long night. You're tired and I'm tired and I shouldn't have done that or said . . ."

"Daniel," she stilled his babbling with a mitten against his cheek. "Please don't apologize. I only need a little time. Can I come see you tomorrow? Not for a lesson. Just to talk?"

He nodded, seemingly not trusting himself with words any longer.

Perhaps the Una Meredith of other days might have retreated into the little gray house as _noiselessly as a little gray mouse_.

But she had stolen a house tonight.

Instead, she kissed Daniel lightly on the lips before floating up the stairs and inside, leaving him staring after her.

* * *

Notes:

The Newgate subplot was inspired by a song: "The Night They Moved the House" by Ten Strings and a Goatskin, a bilingual folk/pop trio from Rustico, Prince Edward Island (which is right next door to Cavendish). Why isn't Archie Newgate dealing with Dennis Pelham in the morning, rather than letting Una do it? Well, I sort of meant Amelia to be a widow like in the song but then I just . . . forgot to kill Archie? Oh well. Too many balls in the air. Mistakes were made.


	58. Keep a Space for Me

Another big shoutout to mavors4986 for help with the French.

And full credit to MrsVonTrapp for "proximity and lack of imagination."

* * *

 **Keep a Space for Me**

* * *

1 February 1942

* * *

 _I danced two waltzes_  
 _One foxtrot_  
 _And the polka_  
 _With no partner that they could see_  
 _And hope I did not tire you._

 _I glided round_  
 _The other ballroom_  
 _The one called Life_  
 _Just as alone_  
 _And have to thank you_  
 _For giving me_  
 _The sprinkling of moments_  
 _Which are my place at table_  
 _In a winner's world._

 _Keep a space for me_  
 _On your card_  
 _If you are dancing still._

\- Leo Marks (1920-2001), untitled code poem for SOE agent Peter Churchill*

* * *

Shirley woke in a farmhouse garret, gray dawnlight glowing through the layer of ice on a tiny window set in the far end. The floorboards were unforgiving, the threadbare pinwheel quilt plainly inadequate to fending off the first of February freeze, even though Shirley wore every stitch of clothing he had.

He had given Mireille the bed, of course. She had protested vigorously, insisting that they flip a franc for it, but he would not hear of it and lay down resolutely on the floor, showing the girl in no uncertain terms that she could sleep where she liked, but he would not have the bed under any circumstances. She had relented, though she insisted that he take the only pillow. Now, her black curls were the only part of her visible over the top of a woolen blanket, burrowed as she was into the luxury of a real mattress.

Truthfully, they should have shared it. It was freezing and they both would have slept better with two blankets and two bodies pressed together. But Shirley had been extremely conscious from the first that Mireille was a young girl — _dix-neuf_ , she said, though the childlike roundness of her face made him skeptical. He had gone out of his way to signal that he was no threat to her, putting on elaborate displays of modesty any time they had to sleep in close proximity or stop in the woods to relieve themselves. Mireille had taken to laughing at him when he inevitably chose the farthest corner of whatever hayloft, cellar, or shed they were occupying, but she also seemed to trust him. After all, if he were going to attack her, he could have done so at any point in the past month.

Shirley had stayed in the first root cellar for three weeks. The farm belonged to a cousin of Mireille's, a sweet-faced woman whose husband had marched off to defend France two years ago and had never been heard from since. She fed them cheese from the dairy and abominable ersatz coffee, and laundered and repaired Shirley's clothes. She even gave him a pair of her husband's old gloves and a barn coat that was much too small in the shoulder, but warm enough. Shirley had pressed an outlandish sum of money into her hand and thanked her in what he hoped was intelligible French.

The old doctor had come back to check Shirley's wound, pleased that it was healing well. At first, Shirley had worried that it might be infected because he felt sweaty and nauseous, but soon realized it was only the lack of cigarettes making him feel jumpy. The doctor had shown Shirley how to clean the wound, a task he performed methodically, flexing the remaining fingers as often as possible to keep them limber. The middle finger was simultaneously stiff and weak, but the thumb and index finger still worked, albeit slowly and always accompanied by a jolt of pain. It was a struggle to maneuver them into the gloves.

Toward the end of the month, they had departed for their rendezvous with Mireille's compatriots. They had hidden where they could, moving along under the cover of night and trying to stay one step ahead of freezing.

Mireille had explained the plan as best she could, and Shirley was fairly certain that he understood the basics. After an ambush like the one they had suffered, the local members of the Resistance were supposed to lie low until the next full moon. That usually meant returning to their homes and jobs as if nothing had happened, but Shirley had thrown a wrench into Mireille's plans, for which he was sincerely sorry.

Back in England, Shirley had attended an SOE lecture explaining that the Resistance in Northern France was a loose network of small groups. They worked together on some operations, like when an agent was assembling a welcoming committee to meet a Lysander, but they weren't an army. The coal miners north and west of here were among the best-organized thanks to the Parti Communiste Français (PCF), and had orchestrated a massive strike last spring that denied the Nazis critical fuel supplies.**

In the event of an attack like the one they had suffered, Mireille's group had agreed to reassemble on the Sunday after the next full moon. Before then, they had agreed not to communicate with one another in case one of them was being watched. Mireille was supposed to meet her comrades at a church during the Sunday service, which seemed risky to Shirley, though perhaps it was easier to gather in a place that was already crowded. He would have preferred to stay in the woods, but if this is where he needed to go to meet up with someone more senior, there was no choice but to risk it.

Mireille slept on, the quiet snuffling of her breath reminding Shirley absurdly of Muggins. The dog would be warm at least, snuggled up with Carl at this time of year. Knowing Carl, he was probably letting her sleep under the covers, protesting that she was old and arthritic and needed tender care. It helped, on the coldest nights, when Shirley could barely sleep for shivering, to imagine them cuddled up together.

Was Carl sleeping alright? He'd have noticed the lack of letters by now. Hopefully there hadn't been any telegrams. Shirley had missed the February moon — it couldn't be helped — but today, he would link up with someone who could put him in touch with an SOE agent. They could get a wireless message through just saying that he was alive — perhaps Grayson would write to Mother and Dad so they wouldn't worry. They'd tell Carl, wouldn't they? That he was alive? Then he'd get out of here under the March moon and send his own telegram right away. _SAFE. SORRY TO WORRY YOU. LETTER TO FOLLOW._

Mireille was stirring, groaning softly.

"Bonjour, Cher Lis," she yawned, stretching.

"Bonjour, Mee-ray," he replied, their little game drawing the smallest of smiles.

She sat up on the bed, wool coat rumpled, black curls a riotous cloud. Shivering, she folded her legs underneath her and tucked the quilt snugly around her knees.

Shirley peeled back his own blanket and rolled up onto his knees. He couldn't stand under the eaves, but he shuffled the few feet to the bed and wrapped his blanket around Mireille's shoulders.

"Mmmm," she said, wriggling into the warmth and closing her eyes again.

There was a small lump of hard cheese in Shirley's bag, along with a heel of stale bread. They had long ago eaten the K-rations from the escape kit, parceling them out so that they were never quite satisfied, but never quite starving either. Mireille's cousin had spared what she could, though it was mid-winter and larders were already going bare. Mireille joked that her parents would be fat and happy when she got home, having spent a month collecting her rations as well as their own. Shirley thought of Christmas and the devilishly expensive hotel dinner, and knew he'd pay ten times as much just to get Mireille a hearty breakfast.

He sliced both cheese and bread and offered Mireille the larger portions, which she took with a dimpled smile and a _merci_.

"Quelle heure?" Shirley asked slowly. "L'église?"

"À neuf heures," she said, dropping her breakfast to hold up nine fingers, lest he be confused.

The gesture made him contract his own hand inside the half-empty glove. The hand hurt less than it had at the beginning, but it still sent a jolt of lightning up his arm if he jarred it. Shirley made an effort to use it, though, knowing that the other fingers would atrophy if he shied away from the pain. He used it now, holding the cheese gingerly as he sliced it with his pocket knife.

Mireille spoke, but Shirley did not catch her meaning.

"Lentement," he said. "Slowly."

"Pré-sen-table," she said. "Faudrait que tu rendes présentable."

Shirley surveyed his stained and muddy trousers, the sweater with the mended patch in the shoulder. He would be conspicuous enough walking around the city, unshaven and rumpled in a too-tight barn coat covered in the stains of a month's rough sleeping.

Mireille frowned. It was not a natural expression for her and tended toward self-parody, her rosebud lips pursed more than downturned.

"Passe-moi des sous," she said.

"Sous? Money?"

She held out a hand and Shirley obliged, pulling a slightly depleted roll out of his shirt pocket. He'd meant to leave her whatever cash was left when he got out of here anyway. The girl peeled off several bills, seeming satisfied as she disappeared down the staircase and into the darkened house.

Shirley took the opportunity to tidy the space, making the bed, repacking his escape kit. There was a basin of wash-water in the stand — frozen — but he broke the surface and scraped his cheeks clean as best he could with an ancient razor and no mirror. He cut himself three times, but nicks were better than walking around looking unkempt. He unfastened his watch, struggling a bit with the blood-stiffened band, and slipped it into his pocket where it would not give him away. Really, he ought to have buried it in the woods long ago, but he had never quite managed it.

Would he see Mireille again after today? Or would he be handed off to others? He'd have to wait for the March moon for his pickup, but perhaps there was another safe house somewhere where he could hole up and wait. Release Mireille so she could get back to her parents.

When Mireille reappeared, she was carrying an old gray duster that smelled strongly of mothballs. It was clean enough, though, and Shirley slipped it on gratefully, covering up the worst of his clothes.

Mireille nodded her approval and motioned for him to sit, pulling a comb from her pocket and applying it to his hair. A black beret produced from thin air finished the look, making Shirley devoutly thankful that he did not have a mirror. The unruly black curls required rather more attention, but Mireille put them in order, tying them away from her face with a pretty pink ribbon.

Shirley took his watch from his pocket and tapped it.

"On va."

*/*/*

At two minutes to nine o'clock, Shirley followed Mireille through the doors of a modest church that was long on sandbags and short on stained glass. Even so, there were enough statues, sconces, and candles to give Shirley a fleeting idea of what Susan might have said. He nearly smiled.

The mass was well attended, but the pews were not packed. Mireille walked unhurriedly toward one near the back, sitting down beside a middle-aged woman in green. The woman slid an eye over Mireille, startling when she caught sight of Shirley beside her. Shirley pretended interest in the mass while Mireille whispered something to her neighbor, who inched sideways to confer with a thin man in his fifties when they stood to sing a hymn. The man blinked several times in rapid succession, but remained otherwise unruffled.

Shirley followed along with the service, moving his lips when it seemed appropriate and mimicking the movements and attention of those around him. After what seemed like all day, the organ groaned a recessional and the congregants spilled into the weak sunshine of a reluctant winter sun. Shirley stuck close to Mireille, falling into step beside her as she followed the woman in green and the thin man. Down one winding street, around a corner, and into a shuttered shop.

When the door was shut behind them, the thin man turned to Mireille and growled. He spat a string of invective low enough that it couldn't truly be called shouting, but fluent enough that he must have spent the better part of the church service composing it.

The exact meaning of the tirade was unimportant. Shirley caught a few words here and there — _étranger, stupide, espion_ — and figured he could guess the rest.

"I'm a pilot," he interrupted. "A Canadian pilot with the RAF. Squadron Leader Shirley J. Blythe. Pilote. Avion. I flew the Lysander in under the full moon. Je ne suis pas allemand. Je suis le pilote."

The thin man glared, even after the woman in green spoke a soothing word to him.

"You are not," he said in unexpected English. "Le pilote est mort."

Mireille spoke up, arguing Shirley's case. Her voice and the man's rose over one another until the older woman shushed them vehemently. Whatever Mireille had said, it hadn't worked. The only bit Shirley had caught was the man's name: _Gustave_.

"Le pilot est mort," Gustave repeated. "The Germans taked him. Mort."

The Germans took the dead pilot? How?

"You have the papers?" he demanded of Shirley.

"The papers?"

"The papers!" Gustave pulled his own identification documents out of his pocket and shook them in Shirley's face.

Shirley winced. He had false French papers, but they proved nothing. He handed them over anyway, only to see them dropped on the floor in disgust. Was there any way to prove that he was who he said he was? Certainly the man was right to be suspicious, especially in the wake of an ambush. But why was he so certain that the dead man was the pilot? Unless . . .

"My jacket!" Shirley said. "Uh . . . la veste. Donné ma veste á un homme. Un homme . . ." _Blast, how did you say wounded?_ "Blessé?"

That must be it. Someone must have seen the Germans recovering the dead agent's body and thought he was the pilot because he was wearing a flight jacket.

Not _a_ flight jacket. _My_ flight jacket. _Shit_.

Mireille spoke up, speaking faster than Shirley could follow, arguing a point to Gustave. He growled in warning, but she did not stop, speaking faster and faster. Shirley saw Gustave's arm tense but didn't quite believe that he would actually slap the girl until the crack of contact.

"Stop!" Shirley said, stepping between Gustave and a hunched Mireille who clutched her reddening cheek.

Gustave glared murderously upward, not cowed in the slightest by Shirley's height. He spluttered, trying to summon words harsh enough in any language.

" _Vous nous mènerez à notre mort, tous les deux!_ "

The woman in green raised her own hand.

"Du calme, Gustave," she said, proceeding to explain something in an undertone. It took some doing, but eventually Gustave's expression settled from fury into grim determination. By the end, he was nodding along.

"You," he said, pointing unnecessarily at Shirley. "You go. The house of Adèle."

"Moi aussi, je viens!" Mireille interjected.

The older woman — Adèle, evidently — thought a moment, but agreed with a curt nod. Wasting no time, she turned toward the exit, beckoning Shirley and Mireille to follow her.

"Wait!" Shirley said. "I need . . . il me faut un . . . un opérateur sans fil! Wireless? A message? Un message? To the RAF or SOE for a Lysander extraction. La lune de mars . . ."

Gustave cut him off. "Partez avec Adèle. Je demanderai aux autres comment on va faire. Foutez l'camp! Toi aussi, Mireille."

Shirley was not ready to give up. "Un message . . ."

Gustave had reached the end of his rope. He fumbled under his coat and came up with a knife. Shirley got a very good look at it, shoved up close to his face.

Shirley stepped back, hands raised in surrender. In truth, he could have broken Gustave's arm and sent him sprawling, even one-handed, but he needed the man's help and couldn't antagonize him any further. He'd go with Adèle and cause no trouble. He thought he had understood that Gustave intended to take his case to someone who could do something about it. How long would that take? A day? A week? Shirley did not want to wait a moment longer, but it seemed that he had no choice.

* * *

Carl woke slowly, gray afternoon light glowing through the layer of ice on the bedroom window. The mattress was soft, the familiar comfort of the old tobacco-stripe quilt still a bulwark against the early February freeze, even though Carl did not like to hold the fort alone.

To that end, he had started letting Muggins sleep under the covers. Oh, he might explain that she was old and that her arthritic hips should be kept as warm as possible, but that wasn't the real reason for her special privileges. Muggins snuggled against him now, her wire-furred sides rising and falling with her gentle snores. Such a solid, faithful companion; even Cricket's memory could not hold a candle to her in the pantheon of Carl's four-legged companions, for all she wasn't really his dog.

Carl scratched around her neck, eliciting a little whine and wiggle as she pressed up against his hand. The fur here was still thick and tweedy, though her muzzle had faded toward gray these last couple of years. Muggins would be thirteen later this year, Carl reflected. A good, long life for any dog. Still, the prospect of losing her chilled more than any winter wind and sent him securing the quilt tighter around them both.

 _Tomorrow._ _There would be a letter tomorrow._

Muggins yawned and stretched and licked Carl's face, but she was done with snuggling. Scrabbling out from the confines of their cocoon, she wriggled off the bed and pawed at the door to be let out.

 _No wonder_ , Carl thought, looking at the alarm clock on the bedside table. After three; they'd slept the day away. Una must still be asleep as well, or at least he hoped that she was.

Carl pulled on slippers and his winter dressing gown and slipped his eyepatch into place. Stepping into the frigid living room, he let Muggins out onto the back porch, turning toward the kitchen with blossoming plans of fixing Una a surprise dinner. Something warm and filling. Risotto, perhaps? He could use up the little end of the good cheese Rosemary had given him for Christmas. He'd let Una sleep and go poke his nose in to check on her when the table was set and the living room heated to a habitable temperature.

Good intentions firmly in place, Carl was halfway to the kitchen when a tiny movement in his peripheral vision made him yelp loudly enough to do Mugsy proud.

"Sorry," Una whispered from the sofa. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She wore the same clothes as this morning, though her hair was down, falling in a glossy black sheet that _betrayed no lawless kinks_. She sat with her feet up on the cushions, tucked in under her skirt, her pale hands clasped over a closed book in her lap. Evidently, she had not been reading, but only cradling the volume as she stared out the frosted window.

Carl pressed a hand over his heart, willing it to slow.

"Goodness, Una. Didn't you ever go to bed?"

She shook her head, dark blue eyes sparkling, and sat up straighter to offer him a cushion. Carl took it, but only after fetching one of Mother's afghans from the back of an armchair and spreading it over them both.

"What's wrong?" he asked, pulling her in with a quilted arm. Una rested her head on his shoulder and smiled.

"Nothing. I think maybe things are right for once."

"Oh?"

"Last night . . . this morning . . . I kissed Daniel."

Carl couldn't stop himself grinning. He pressed a cheek to his sister's hair, joyful on her behalf and happy to learn that he had not misread the signs.

"Did he kiss you back?"

"Yes." Then, in a smaller voice, "He said that he loves me."

"Anyone could see that," Carl said with a comfortable squeeze. "The way he looked at you last night . . . he's a goner for sure."

Una's laughter was as fragile and fleeting as the puff of visible breath that carried it.

"I don't know what to do," she said. "I've been sitting here all day, trying to puzzle it out, but I can't."

"I wouldn't think it was much of a stumper. Unless you don't love him back?"

"I . . . I do."

"Then what's the problem?"

Una did not answer, but retrieved her book from under the afghan. Carl recognized the red cover as one that had always had a place on the shelf in Una's own bedroom, never among the dog-eared field guides and back issues of ecology journals crammed into the living room bookcase. The cover named it _The Faerie Queene_.

There was a letter inside — an old one, the paper thinned with age and re-reading, with fraying edges for all it was kept so carefully. Una held it gingerly and and turned it so that Carl could see the signature. All his delight crumbled at sight of it.

"Walter?" he croaked. "Oh, Una, _no_. You can't mean . . . you wouldn't deny yourself happiness now because of . . ."

She smiled again, the old, wistful, moonbeam smile. "No. Not like that. I said my goodbyes long ago. It's only what he wrote. That there was so much work left to do. That we must never break faith. He died believing that his sacrifice would _make Canada safe for the poets of the future_. He always believed that that was his charge: To make the world safe for beauty, even though he knew it would _never be beautiful to him again_. That if he couldn't have beauty for himself, at least he could lay down his life so that others could."**

Una paused, tracing the faded words with a pale fingertip. "I always thought," she whispered, "that that would be the way for me to keep faith. That if I couldn't have love or a home for myself, at least I could make it possible for others."

Carl knew he must speak — must tell her that she was wrong, that she _could_ have love for herself, that she _did_ have it, and always had, from all the people she had loved so well, and now she only had a little more — but he knew that if he opened his mouth, he would only sob. He tightened his arm around her shoulder, steeling himself.

"You have," he choked.

"And now I'm so close to my consecration," she continued. "I was called to be a deaconess. God put it into my heart and I've never been happier than I've been these past two years preparing and studying."

"With Daniel?"

Could this be his sister's face? Of course it was, all milk-pale skin and dark blue eyes, but it wasn't Una's smile at all. It was older than that, an expression that lit up a long-darkened recess of Carl's memory, jolting him with the realization that if he had inherited Cecilia Meredith's eyes, Una had inherited her smile. It had only been packed away in cedar all this time.

"Yes. That is, he's part of it. But there's more. I can't be a real minister, but I can still do this pastoral work. Studying to be a deaconess feels so very right, as if I'm just where I'm supposed to be. How can I ever give it up?"

"Would you really have to?" Carl mused. "Couldn't you do the same work as a priest's wife?"

It was the first time either of them had put a name to this possible future, and a spot of color rose in Una's cheek, though she did not shrink.

"I suppose I could," she conceded. "Though I didn't go into all this lightly. I prayed and prayed and I'm very certain that God wanted me to be a deaconess."

Carl chewed his lip. "Maybe God only wanted you to _study_ to be a deaconess."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you really think it's mere coincidence that God started you on that path and placed Daniel alongside it?"

This was evidently a new thought.

"N-no . . ." Una said cautiously. "Though I don't know that God is in the business of match-making."

"No?" Carl smiled. "I always thought He knew what He was about when he brought us here from Maywater."

Was it truly coincidence that had brought them all together? Or only proximity and lack of imagination? No, Carl didn't believe that. Providence had had a finger on the scale where Merediths and Blythes were concerned. Perhaps that was bad theology, but he didn't have a better way of explaining what had always seemed a miracle to him, or at the very least a wonderful gift.

"You think that God meant me to study, but not to be consecrated in the end?" Una asked, brows drawn together. "He's not a puppeteer, Carl."

"Well, I'm sure that you and Daniel can puzzle over the theology of that over the breakfast table," Carl smiled, hugging her closer. "All I can say is that you look so happy right now. I'll believe any doctrine that lets you stay that way."

"I haven't decided. He hasn't even asked . . ."

"Oh, he will. And you'll be so happy together."

"But what about you, Carl? I can't leave you . . ."

"No, Una," Carl said, pulling away and meeting her eye straight on. "I absolutely forbid you considering me at all. I'll be perfectly fine no matter what, and the only thing that could hurt me is knowing that I'd held you back. Don't you remember the story of Rosemary and Aunt Ellen? I'm never your Ellen, not in a million years."****

Una smiled that bright, open smile again. "I suppose this analogy makes Shirley into Norman Douglas? I'm not sure how he'll feel about that."

"We'll write him and find out," Carl said calmly, though the thought of letters sent gooseflesh up his arm. _Tomorrow. There would be a letter tomorrow._

In the kitchen, the telephone rang. Una began to move, but Carl hopped up and tucked the afghan around her.

"You stay. I'll be back in a minute and build you a fire. And tea! How did you go all day without it?"

But there would be no fire that day, and no tea, at least not the cozy sort for savoring.

"Hello, Carl Meredith speaking."

"Carl? Oh, Carl. We've . . . we've had a telegram."

* * *

Notes:

*In WWII, SOE agents used poems as keys for sending coded wireless transmissions (early in the war, they used famous poems, but moved to original compositions for security reasons). Many of the original poems were written by Leo Marks, a young Jewish Londoner who worked for SOE as a cryptographer. His most famous poem is the one used by agent Violet Szabo (1921-1945), "The Life That I Have." The untitled poem included here was used by agent Peter Churchill (1909-1972), who completed several missions in occupied France and survived Dachau concentration camp. For more, see Leo Marks, _Between Silk and Cyanide: A Code-Maker's War, 1941-5_ (1998).

**In May-June 1941, 100,000 coal miners in the Nord and Pas-de-Calais regions of France (and 70,000 in Belgium) went on strike. This disrupted the fuel supply to Paris and surrounding industrial regions and proved to be an important moment in organizing the Resistance in this region. see Ronald Tiersky, _French Communism, 1920-1972_ (1974) and Michael Seidman, _Transatlantic Antifascisms_ (2007).

*** _Rilla of Ingleside_ chapter 23, "And So, Goodnight"

**** _Rainbow Valley_ chapter 22, "St. George Knows All About It"


	59. You Ain't as Bad Off as Some

**"You Ain't as Bad Off as Some"***

* * *

February 1942

* * *

 _"'You ain't as bad off as some, Miss Oliver,' [Sophia Crawford] said, 'and you shouldn't take it so hard. There's some as has lost their husbands; that's a hard blow; and there's some as has lost their sons. You haven't lost either husband or son.'_

 _"'No,' said Gertrude, more bitterly still. 'It's true I haven't lost a husband—I have only lost the man who would have been my husband. I have lost no son—only the sons and daughters who might have been born to me—who will never be born to me now.''_

 _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 19: "They Shall Not Pass"

* * *

On the morning of Wally Blythe's funeral, Una pinned her sister's hair back into a simple knot. No doubt Faith could have done it herself, but Una was glad to provide even the simplest service on a day when there was both so much to do and nothing to be done.

"Di telephoned from Town," Una said as she slid a bobby pin gently into place. "The ferry was late last night and she missed the train, but she's coming in this morning."

"That's good," Faith said without inflection.

All week, Una had watched Faith console her family — holding Jemmy as she howled, singing Cecilia to sleep, assuring a tear-spattered Zoe that she would always, _always_ have a place at Ingleside — her own face lax and pallid with anguish. Faith _was of the type to which colour meant everything. Lacking her crimson cheeks she seemed meek and even insignificant,_ a ghost of herself with all the laughter drained out.**

Still, Faith had kept her feet. She had been the one to make the telephone calls on that first terrible day, when Jem was stunned into unprecedented silence, and she had spent the interval accepting casseroles from well-wishers and coaxing bits of food into her girls. If she went to pieces, it was only behind closed doors when she and Jem were alone together with their grief.

He came to her now, knocking softly at the open door. It was awful to see Jem looking _grey and drawn and old_ , with a gauntness that suggested he had not slept. Over the years, Faith had hinted that Jem had some trouble with his heart as a souvenir of his time in prison, and seeing him ashen-lipped like this jolted Una. He was not yet fifty.

Faith stood and went to him, wordless, forgetting her sister's existence as she opened her arms. Una did not wish to intrude, so she slipped past them and into the hall, pulling the door shut behind her. Perhaps Mrs. Blythe and Rilla could use some help downstairs.

Una meant to go straight down to the kitchen, but was arrested by the sound of quiet sobs from a half-open door down the hall. Not unusual in this house, but Una poked her nose in to see if there was anything she could do.

Zoe Maylock sat on the bed — Wally's bed, but hers these past two months — in her white satin slip, weeping into Rosemary's black crepe shoulder. Her own mourning clothes hung on the back of the closet door, layered limply over the blue chiffon she had worn to the New Year's dance.

Rosemary looked up over the blonde head, not smiling exactly, but with a soft expression that invited Una to stay nevertheless.

"It's alright, dearie," Rosemary crooned. "Cry as much as you like."

Zoe obliged. It was several minutes before her sobs diminished into gulps and shudders and she lay exhausted in Rosemary's arms.

Una felt her own tears welling in sympathy. It was so easy to slip back into the awful autumn of 1916, remembered only in fragments. Rilla's grim determination to remain calm in public; Mrs. Blythe's long convalescence; the Doctor's wretched misery as he went about his duties; a night when Una herself had sat out on Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone in the cold and damp, clutching the letter that wasn't even addressed to her and half hoping that her vigil might end with some sort of sublimation, floating away with the morning mist. But _s_ _he had no right in the eyes of her world to grieve.***_

That was decades ago. If Una could do nothing for the girl she had been, she could certainly offer some comfort to the one before her now. She ducked out to the bathroom and returned with a warm, damp towel to sponge Zoe's face.

"I'm sorry to carry on so," Zoe apologized.

Una dabbed at her cheeks, wiping away a line of melted mascara. "It's perfectly alright to cry."

"I almost feel I don't have the right. _I haven't lost a husband_."*

Zoe sniffled again and began to shake. Una was at a loss and looked to Rosemary, imploring her aid.

"May I tell you something, Zoe," Rosemary said calmly, waiting for a tiny nod of consent. "When I was very young — even younger than you — I was engaged to a sailor. Martin Crawford. I loved him very much. But one day his ship was lost in the Magdalens and he never came home to me."

"W-What did you do?"

"I cried. I cried and I prayed and it was very hard. I can't tell you what to do or how to feel, but I can tell you that you have a right to mourn. There's no sense pretending you aren't grieving when you are. If you want to talk about anything, you can."

Rosemary spoke to Zoe, but she looked at Una, who forced a small smile of acknowledgement.

"I can't . . ." Zoe faltered, "I can't stop thinking about what happened to his body. Picturing it in my mind. Did the explosion kill him? Or did he drown? Or freeze? Was he floating in the cold water or trapped down deep in the dark . . ."

She ended with a sob, but Rosemary only held her closer.

"I know," she said quietly. "I know."

"D-Did Martin have a funeral?"

"They never found his body. But there was a service. Like today."

There was always a service. Prayers and hymns and a sermon, and someday another plaque on the church wall. _To the Memory of Walter Meredith Blythe_ . . .

"I'm nervous," Zoe admitted. "Everyone has been awfully kind, but they'll all stare and I'm afraid I'll do this all wrong."

"You can't do it wrong," Una said. "Whatever you do will be alright."

"Dellie trimmed a hat for me," Zoe sniffed, gesturing toward the dresser where a pile of magazine clippings was topped with a frothy concoction of black netting.

"It's very elegant," Una said, retrieving the hat and handing it to Zoe.

Zoe turned it over in her hands. "I don't know whether I ought to wear it. It's a widow's hat and I'm not a widow."

"Perhaps not legally," Rosemary said. "But there's some leeway when it comes to hats."

"Do you want to wear it, Zoe?" Una asked.

"Yes."

"Then you should wear it."

"You don't think Dr. and Mrs. Blythe would object? They might think it presumptuous."

Privately, Una thought that Faith would scarcely notice if they all went to church stark naked. But she squeezed Zoe's hand and gave her a reassuring smile.

"No. I don't think they would object."

Together, Una and Rosemary helped Zoe on with her dress, hiding the bright white satin and lace of her slip under flat black silk. They smoothed her hair into two soft rolls low on her neck and nestled the black hat into place, arranging the veil over her forehead.

"You really think it's alright?" Zoe asked, chewing her lip as she scrutinized her reflection.

"Yes," Una said definitely. "It's exactly right."

* * *

Carl sat in the manse pew, squashed between Una and Jerry. Every corner of the Glen St. Mary Presbyterian church was crammed, even the gallery and the overflow chairs the Meredith brothers had set up in the back. After all, Wally Blythe was the first local boy to die in this second great war, though all assembled knew it wasn't likely that he would be the last.

There had been some discussion of holding the funeral at Ingleside, but even a large house couldn't accommodate the whole Glen and most of Lowbridge High as well. Besides, it was awfully hard to be on display right now with nowhere quiet to retreat.

How did Father do it? Stand up in front of everyone and try to offer comfort when he was grieving as much as anybody? He was in the pulpit now, speaking without the glamour that usually came over him there. People who met Father in his quiet, dreamy moods often doubted that he could really live up to his reputation as the finest preacher Glen St. Mary had ever had, but were always forced to eat their words when he caught his usual spark on his way to the lectern.

Not today, though. Carl was dismayed to see that today, Father was only an old man, face lined with sleeplessness, voice drooping short of the rafters.

"Not quite twenty years ago," he began softly, "my daughter and her husband brought a squirming little fellow to this very church to be baptized. Those of you who are old enough will remember how Wally squalled and screamed until he was redder than his hair."

A ripple of fond remembrance passed through the congregation as people smiled in spite of themselves, remembering, as Carl did, how that particular baptism had ended with Wally kicking over the silver basin and leaving Elder Clow's mustache dripping. Really, it was thanks to Wally that the Ladies' Aid had raised funds for a stone font that could withstand the fury of any infant.

Father continued, his voice a little stronger than before.

"He never was one to sit silently by, our Wally. I'm sure that Elder Baxter will remember the time in Sunday School when the primer class was supposed to learn that Lot was warned to take his wife and flee out of the city. When he heard that Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt, all Wally wanted to know was what had happened to the flea?"

More smiles now, and a smattering of laughter. Carl turned far enough to glance at the Ingleside pew, where a soft expression shone through Faith's tears and Jem clutched her hand between both of his.

"That was our Wally. Never shy. Never hesitant. In the very first days of the war, when the SS _Athenia_ was sunk and all those innocent lives lost, Wally decided to join the Navy just as soon as he could. When he was home last summer, he told me he was glad to be doing his bit to make sure that the food and supplies and men we send from Canada arrive safely where they are most needed."

Father paused and for a moment, Carl thought that he would not be able to go on. It was too terrible. They should have asked Bruce to speak, or Mr. Arnold, or even Daniel Caldwell. Would people really care about denominational differences when there was such a thing as U-boats in the world?

"We need not suppose that Wally died alone," Father said so quietly that the whole congregation bent forward to hear. "When Faith and Jem brought him here to be baptized, they dedicated him to Christ, and Christ was always with him ever after. Though we may wish that we could have been there in his final moments to comfort and witness, we must remember that Wally was with Christ then and is with him now.

"I know there can be little solace for any of us in this time of sorrow. It can seem that an all-powerful God could have prevented this terrible loss, and should have. When God's work and His purpose are obscure to us, it can seem that He is indifferent to our suffering.

"And yet, we know that that is not so. We know that _an infinite Power must be infinitely little as well as infinitely great. We are neither, therefore there are things too little as well as too great for us to apprehend. To the infinitely little an ant is of as much importance as a mastodon.*_ God calls each of us by name and does not lose us when he gives us to earth for a little while; neither do we lose one another when we return home to Him. We will mourn Wally because he was dear to us and because he sacrificed his future in the service of others. But we will not despair. Instead, we will give thanks for Wally's life and for God's infinite mercy toward Wally and toward all of us."

It was a good sermon, Carl supposed, with bits that Susan would have called _sound and orthodox_.* But it was very hard to think of gangly, impulsive, freckle-faced Wally Blythe in connection with anything so solemn and profound as an infinite Power of whatever size. It left Carl feeling empty, as if he could not even cry over it. In the last war, he had believed that their sacrifices, however terrible, were worthwhile because they would bring about the end of war forever. But now? There had been no letters this week, none at all, and just let anyone try to convince Carl to reconcile himself to that in service of some mysterious higher purpose.

"As we leave this gathering," Father continued, standing up a bit straighter, "we will show our love for Wally by caring for his people."

He stretched out his hand toward the Ingleside pew and every eye in the community followed his gesture.

"We will cherish and uplift Wally's friends and family," Father said with an unexpected touch of fierceness, "especially his parents, Faith and Jem, his brother Sam who is still serving in England, his sisters Jemmy and Cecilia, and . . . and . . ."

Carl leaned forward in his seat, not quite believing that Father was about to say it out loud in front of God and the Glen, and yet willing that he would.

Yes, just say it.

 _Please._

". . . and his beloved Zoe and their child. We will love Wally by loving them."

A murmur ruffled its way through the pews, scattered tones of approbation and reproof mingling with the more general surprise. Carl barely heard any of it. He was looking up at Father through his tears, and Father was looking back at him.

* * *

Una did not want a place in the receiving line. She would have much rather gone up to the manse with Rilla and Di and Agnes to set out the refreshments, but Faith had made a place beside her in line and pulled Una into it, and there was no gainsaying that.

"Thank you for coming," Zoe said, clear-eyed and dauntless as she shook the hand of the Lowbridge High principal and passed him down the line to Jem.

"God bless you," the man said to Faith, then shook Una's hand and then Father's and Rosemary's and Dr. Blythe's and Mrs. Blythe's and on and on down the line and out of sight.

Jim Anderson came next, with his wife and their English nieces and nephews, all bobbing and murmuring polite condolences. Faith bent to kiss the sandy-colored head of the littlest boy, who wore a green overcoat they all knew well. Next came Joe and Miranda Milgrave and then Dr. Parsons followed by an assortment of Drews. Una did her best to keep up, shaking hands and repeating _thank you thank you thank you_ until the words lost meaning and turned awkward on her tongue.

Then there was a familiar hand in hers and Una looked up, startled, into deep brown eyes soft with sympathy.

"Please accept my sincere regrets, Miss Meredith," Daniel said.

Una had heard those exact words fifty times in a row and they hadn't made her want to sob like a child. She was here to support Faith and it wouldn't do to launch herself at Daniel and weep into his coat, though it took all her willpower to stop herself doing just that.

"Daniel," she said faintly. "I'm sorry. I missed our meeting . . ."

He shook his head firmly. "Not at all. You're just where you need to be. I'm not going anywhere."

But he was, at least at the moment, passing down the line so as not to hold it up. He told Father that it had been a beautiful service and offered Rosemary any aid that he or St. Elizabeth's might be able to provide and took Dr. Blythe's hand . . .

"Miss Meredith? Ummm . . . Una?"

Una blinked and turned back to the line, where Miller Douglas had evidently been waiting on her attention. No harm done, it seemed, since Mary had Faith in her grasp and would have held things up anyway.

"Sorry," Una murmured, taking Miller's hand.

"I'm very sorry for your loss."

* * *

No one would miss Carl. Even if they did, it would take them the whole afternoon to search the manse, which was groaning at the seams with mourners. Some of them were even hungry, which seemed impossible but was nevertheless true, given the way empty platters and pie pans kept returning to the kitchen where Carl had taken temporary refuge. But then Victoria Ford had dropped a tray of silverware into the sink with a bright, jangling clatter and Carl had made off for the old Methodist graveyard posthaste.

The ant bed was quiet at this time of year, so Carl sought out Hezekiah Pollock's tombstone and dangled his legs over the edge, breathing the clean, cold air in long, deliberate breaths until his heart slowed. Indistinct chatter floated over the frigid lawn from the house, but Carl heard only the echoes of the children who had once played here, eating blueberries off the dyke and singing "Polly Wolly Doodle" to Miss Cornelia's everlasting mortification.

 _"Where would you like to be buried if you were a Methodist?" asked Faith cheerfully._

 _"I'd like that corner near the road, I guess,"_ Jerry had said. _"I could hear the teams going past and the people talking."_

 _"I'd like that little hollow under the weeping birch," said Una. "That birch is such a place for birds and they sing like mad in the mornings."_

 _"I'd take the Porter lot where there's so many children buried. I like lots of company," said Faith. "Carl, where'd you?"_

 _"I'd rather not be buried at all," said Carl, "but if I had to be I'd like the ant-bed. Ants are AWF'LY int'resting."****_

What happened to people who weren't buried? Carl had wondered that often enough during the last war, when men who had sat beside him at breakfast one morning had gone over the top the next and disappeared as if they'd never existed at all. Now it was a pressing question again. God must know where they were, mustn't He? Even if they had been eaten by fish or dissolved in water or burnt to ash or blown out of the sky . . .

"Everything alright, Carl?"

Carl dragged a sleeve across his face and turned to find Di picking her way through the headstones toward him.

"Sure," he said, scooting over to make room for her on the tombstone.

She gave him such an elaborately skeptical look that he laughed, or hiccuped, or sobbed, or several in combination.

"Can't I just be mourning my nephew?" he asked.

"Of course. We all are. But you haven't said a word to anyone all day."

"You're keeping track of me now?"

"When you're within reach."

The manse door opened and a couple trundled off up the road, their identities smothered under scarves and hats. They'd all start going home soon and then it would just be the family left to get by in a new world with no Wally in it.

"I didn't mean to be unsociable," Carl said. "How's Sylvia getting along?"

"Fine. She sent a cable up to Ingleside with her condolences and said she'll go see Sam as soon as she can."

"That's very good of her."

"Rilla said that Gil sent one, too. He'll go visit Sam when he can get leave."

"Oh."

Di spoke very gently: "Mum and Dad mentioned that they sent a telegram to Shirley."

"Oh?" Carl asked an octave above casual. "Did they get a reply?"

"Not yet."

What might that mean? If the telegram were undeliverable, wouldn't the telegram company let them know? Soon?

"How long has it been since you got a letter?" Di asked.

Carl swallowed. Should he say when it was addressed or when he had received it? The latter seemed less dire, so he said, "Mid-January."

"Well, that's not so very long ago, is it?"

No, not really. Three weeks. Four soon. But no bad news either, not yet. That was something, wasn't it?

Di threaded her arm through the crook of Carl's elbow and squeezed. "You're still giving your lecture in Kingsport in March, aren't you? You'll stay with me of course. And I know Anthony will be glad to see you, too."

Carl forced himself to nod. "I'll plan on it."

Another group of mourners left the manse. As they passed by the graveyard, Carl recognized the Arnolds and touched the brim of his hat to Fred.

"The Maylocks didn't come, did they?" he asked Di in a steadier voice.

"I wouldn't know them on sight," Di said. "But no, I don't think so."

"It was good of my Father to include Zoe in his prayer. And Jem made sure she was at the head of the receiving line, too. I'm sure it meant a lot to her."

"Yes. They'll take good care of her."

A lone figure slipped out of the manse and crossed the road to the church. He disappeared around the side of the church and returned astride a motorcycle, roaring away toward Lowbridge.

Di's eyes widened. "Is that . . . ?"

A smile broke through Carl's defenses. "Una's suitor?"

Di poked Carl in the ribs. "And you didn't point him out to me when I had the chance to get a good look? Fine brother you make."

"He was the one dressed as a priest," Carl smirked.

"Are they really going to make a match of it?"

"I hope so. You should have seen her, Di. The day after we moved the house, she was so happy, you almost wouldn't recognize her."

"Moved the _what_?"

Carl blinked. "No one's told you about how Una stole a house?"

"Una? Stole? _A house?_ "

It had been an awful week and no one had had time or heart to compose amusing letters. But the world was gray and grim enough to need a little relief. Carl smiled and started in on the tale.

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ chapter 19: "They Shall Not Pass"

** _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 16: "Tit for Tat"

*** _Rilla of Ingleside_ chapter 23: "And So, Goodnight"

**** _Rainbow Valley_ , chapter 4: "The Manse Children"


	60. Eclipse

**Eclipse**

* * *

2-3 March 1942

* * *

Una found Daniel working in the garden. He did not see her right away and she had the pleasure of watching him work, trowel flashing in the waning afternoon sunlight as he filled a tray with soil to sprout the year's seeds indoors. What might it be like to go to him smiling, lay a hand on his shoulder, greet him with a kiss . . .

She was nearly at the gate by the time he noticed her and dropped his trowel into the dirt. He pulled off his gloves and leaned over the fence, smiling.

"Just the person I wanted to see," he said. "I'm trying butter beans this year and was wondering what type of trellis might be appropriate."

"A sturdy one," Una said, returning his smile. "You're welcome to come see ours if you like. But I wasn't planning on planting for another few weeks."

Daniel nodded and pulled a much-thumbed almanac from his overall pocket. "Quite right. Quite right." He held the book at arm's length and squinted at the tiny type. "Says here that butter beans should go in around Easter. Say, does that say that there's going to be a lunar eclipse tonight?"

He indicated a column showing the lunar phases with a little notation next to tonight's full moon. Una leaned over to see, careful not to brush against his arm.

"Yes," she said. "Carl mentioned it before he went to Kingsport for his lecture."

"I read once that the ancients believed that an eclipse portends great change," Daniel said as he took up his tray of soil.

Una gave a pleasant and noncommittal acknowledgement as she held the gate open. She followed Daniel up the lawn toward the rectory, the hollow feeling in her stomach expanding with every step. She had come to talk, but was still very glad when Daniel excused himself to put on clean clothes and left her to oversee the kettle and gather her wits.

The rectory kitchen had good bones. A spacious pantry, plenty of natural light, and a well-placed window over the sink that looked down over the garden, now bathed in the slanting sunlight of advancing afternoon. The linoleum was chipped and the paint was an uninspiring shade of taupe, but a few homey touches could transform it into . . .

Una stopped herself before she completed the thought. Nothing was settled. She turned her attention to herself instead, smoothing her skirt and adjusting the black mourning armband she had worn all month.

When Daniel returned, face scrubbed and beaming, Una found herself mirroring his smile back to him. They settled on either side of the table, teacups filled before them, neither knowing exactly how to begin.

"How is your sister?" Daniel asked tentatively.

"Poorly," Una conceded. "But getting by. Thank you for coming to the funeral."

"Of course. I only wish there were more I could do."

Una nodded, chewing her lip. Oh, why was it so difficult to begin?

Daniel seemed to sense her trouble and extended an open hand across the table. Una took a little shuddering breath and rested her own over his palm, the _touch so tender that Una found courage_.*

"I have been thinking about what you said," she ventured. "About . . . not being a deaconess. And what that might mean . . ."

"I didn't intend to leave you in any doubt," Daniel said hastily. "I love you, Una. I want to marry you, if you'll have me."

A thrill expanded outward, filling up Una's empty-bellied nerves and escaping in that new, unencumbered smile. It was still difficult to speak, but only because the muscles of her face were otherwise engaged.

"I love you, too, Daniel."

His hand closed around hers, gently but firmly, though his face remained open and expectant as he waited on the second half of her answer.

"If I married you, I couldn't be a deaconess," she said carefully. "I think you'll know what it means to feel called to something. I know I could still serve the congregation, but I need to be certain that I'm not turning away from what God has asked of me. Can you understand that?"

Daniel nodded. Una hated to see him disappointed, but she felt she must be clear on this point.

"I don't mean to say no," she clarified. "Only that I need time to pray on it. I've been preparing for consecration for a long time and I can't turn away from it lightly."

"Of course not," Daniel croaked.

"That's not the only consideration," Una continued. "There's my brother as well."

"Carl?"

"Yes. We've lived together twenty years and I can't just abandon him."

"Does he object? To me?"

"No. In fact, I think he would be very cross if he could hear me right now. But I love him and I need to make sure he's cared for."

Daniel shrugged. "I suppose he can get along alright. He could hire a housekeeper. Not Mrs. Williams, I wouldn't wish her on anyone, but he could find someone. Or you could bring him here to the rectory. It's plenty big enough."

A nervous little laugh escaped before Una could catch it. "No. Thank you, that's very kind, but I don't think that would be good for anyone. I only mean that I need to talk to him seriously about the logistics of it."

Daniel's throat bobbed. "Does that mean . . . that you're really considering it?"

"Of course I am."

"We could be such a good team, Una."

"Aren't we already?"

He smiled at that, acknowledging the point with a little laugh. "Yes, though . . ."

"Though what?"

"Though I'd very much like to kiss you again."

There was a table between them, still set with untouched teacups that rattled when Una stood and stepped lightly around the corner. She bent to press her lips to Daniel's upturned face and squeaked when he wrapped his arms about her waist and pulled her into his lap.

"Alright?" he asked, a little breathlessly.

She answered without words, pouring her heart into the smile that dissolved as it met his. This felt good and safe and _right_ , and perhaps that was the only answer she needed, spoken in a language that was her own after all.

* * *

"Is it alright to look at the eclipse without glasses, Mr. Meredith?" Harry Marckworth asked through chattering teeth.

Carl nodded, though the wooly hat and muffler rendered the gesture ineffective. "Perfectly alright, Harry. You're thinking of solar eclipses. You're right — you should never look at the sun without special equipment. But this is a lunar eclipse, and it's perfectly safe to stare at the full moon all night long if you like."

The three young Marckworth brothers sat in a row on an old woolen blanket, clutching the cups of cocoa Anthony had poured from a thermos with little Gladys's help. From the back, they were three heaps of hats and scarves silhouetted against the sky.

There weren't many other purposeful eclipse-viewers gathered on the hill in Kingsport Park, though a few evening wanderers paused to watch the sky once it became clear that something special was happening. They stood singly or in pairs, faces turned upward, watching the full moon disappear one sliver at a time.

"The moon will come back, won't it?" Gladys asked, turning in her father's lap.

"Of course it will," Anthony replied. "The moon always comes back. It's just hidden for a little while."

"Why?"

Carl obliged Anthony's silent plea for help, using his own cocoa cup and Anthony's to demonstrate how the earth had come between the sun and the moon in perfect alignment, casting a vast shadow. The bright glow was dimmed, but only temporarily, and it would shine again on the other side of the earth-cast shade.

"But why does it look red?" Paul wanted to know. "Shadows are mostly black, but the moon looks all bloody."

Carl did his best to explain about refraction and reflection and different wavelengths of light, admitting defeat when David pressed for more specifics.

"I'm afraid that's all I know," he shrugged. "I never was very good at physics and geometry."

 _Shirley could have explained it better._

 _Well_ , Carl thought fairly, _he could have understood it better anyway_. Whether that would translate into an ability to communicate that knowledge to others was not as certain. By all accounts, those classroom lectures at Borden had never gone very well.

Where was he tonight? He wouldn't just stop writing again, would he? No. He wouldn't. Carl felt sure of that. And he would have gone to see Sam if he could have. Perhaps he was in some sort of secret training, out of communication for a while. Or perhaps he had said too much and a censor had destroyed a letter or two rather than trying to black it all out. Anything could have happened, really. Perhaps nothing was wrong at all and Shirley's letters had merely gone astray. Ships did sink, as they knew all too well. Perhaps he was on a long mission. Or in prison. That was possible; if he'd had to bail out over enemy territory, he might have been captured. It could take months to confirm that; remember how the Blythes never got word directly from Jem until after he'd already escaped?

 _Or maybe he's just dead._

When he had heard the word _telegram_ over the phone last month, Carl's heart had stopped or, _if that be a physiological impossibility, he thought it did_. But it was Faith's voice on the line, not Mrs. Blythe's, and Faith choking out _telegram_ . . . _Wally_ . . . _torpedoed_. Air had rushed back into Carl's lungs in his relief, and he had never felt so ashamed over anything.

Now he sat watching the progress of the devouring shadow across the face of the moon. Carl breathed deeply, making a conscious effort to experience the moment rather than chasing after his skittish thoughts. He had nearly canceled his lecture in Kingsport, not knowing if he would be equal to the travel or the task, but Di and Anthony had joined forces to coax him. A little change of scenery. A little something normal.

In the end, he'd given in and gone, rather than fretting away the hours at home. The presentation had been a rousing success, at least by the standards of ecology lectures. Carl had lost himself in the speech and the many questions that followed, managing to forget everything else for a couple of hours.

Now his mind was at rest, or should have been, if it hadn't been besieged. There had been no telegram. That had to mean something, didn't it? Besides, Carl's own letters had not come back to him, as he had heard they sometimes did when . . . well, when the recipient was unavailable. He shivered, remembering Anthony's sister Hazel, whose only notification after Passchendaele had been her own letters sent back to her stamped _Killed in Action_.

Carl felt a nudge in the vicinity of his mourning band and looked over to see Anthony beside him, Gladys asleep in his lap, a look of tender concern on his face.

"Are you alright, Carl?"

"No," Carl said honestly, though he bit back a sob on account of the boys, who were now pointing out the stars that made up Leo and roaring at one another.

"You would have heard if there was anything to hear."

Carl snorted. "You've been out of the army a long time to have such faith in their efficiency."

"So don't trust the military," Anthony shrugged. "Trust that little dog of yours."

"What?"

"I heard that story often enough. About how the Blythes' dog howled when Shirley's brother was killed, but never for Jem, even when he was missing for so long. Muggins hasn't had any fits lately, has she?"

Carl wrapped his arms tightly around himself, but shivered anyway. "That's just a story, Anthony."

Anthony laid a gloved hand over Carl's on the blanket, careful not to jostle Gladys. "A true one, as far as I know."

 _It was absurd—and irrational—and impossible._ The sort of fairy tale people told themselves to make the world less frightening. Carl _smiled faintly in pretended derision, but felt an odd confidence replace his despair. Common sense might scorn — incredulity might mutter "Mere superstition"—_ but Carl wanted to believe. He looked again at Anthony, all patience and sympathy, and at the moon, coming back to itself now, glowing full and silver once more. _Foolish. Absurd._ But in his heart, Carl believed that Muggins knew the truth.**

* * *

A month. A whole month in the bombed out shell of a forester's cottage in the woods beyond Adèle Duflot's farmhouse.

 _Damn, it was cold_.

Even with extra socks and a proper woolen hat that covered his ears — no more of that beret nonsense — Shirley still spent most of his time trying to keep warm. The cottage had been damaged and abandoned in the last war; now, it was little more than an overgrown ruin. Most of it had collapsed, but there was one room that still had a ceiling and enough walls to provide shelter from the worst weather. Shirley had covered over the gaps with woven branches and made a sort of lean-to in the corner to keep in as much body heat as possible. It was too risky to build even a small fire except in the thickest fog or rain, but a hole scratched out of the ground and lined with salvaged bricks made a good coal-keeper that retained some heat betweentimes. Shirley found himself almost wishing it were a bit colder; a blanket of snow would insulate his hideout. Instead, the intermittent rain in temperatures just above freezing kept everything miserably damp.

At least Mireille had been spared. Adèle had kept her on as a farmhand, on account of Adèle's not entirely fictional lumbago. It wasn't just a cover to explain the girl's presence to the local occupiers; Mireille spent her days mopping floors and wringing laundry and helping with the late-winter lambing. But every few days, she would slip into the forest to bring food and sit with Shirley for an hour or two to help him practice his French. He smiled for the first time in weeks when she brought him _The Count of Monte Cristo_. It wasn't comforting, exactly, but it was familiar.

"Tes parents savent que tu es ici?" he asked her.

"Oui," she said, explaining that she had written them to say she had found a job.

"As-tu des nouvelles de Gustave?"

She never did have news from Gustave. Not the first week. Not the second week. Nor the third.

This was madness. Shirley could not stay in this frigid hovel forever. He had orders to get back to base and goddamn it he was going to get back to base. Carl would be beside himself by now and there was no hope of pretending nothing had happened. Shirley resolved that if he had not heard from Gustave by the March moon, he would try his luck on the road to Spain. Very difficult in winter, but spring was on its way.

In the end, it proved unnecessary.

The dawn before the full moon, Mireille arrived with fresh bread and a dimpled smile to tell Shirley that they were leaving.

"Où on va?" Shirley asked.

"Au marché," she said. "On va mener les agneaux à l'abattoir. Allez!"

Shirley was pretty sure that _agneaux_ meant _lambs_ and that _abattoir_ meant the same in both French and English. It was only when the Duflot farm came into view that he saw that Mireille had not been making a dark joke. Two dozen fuzzy white lambs milled in the farmyard, bleating and crowding one another. Easter was still a few weeks away, but the earliest lambs were ready for market now, and would be their ticket into the city of Arras. A cart piled with bales of hay stood beside the barn with a sway-backed nag in the traces.

Adèle dusted her hands and called them over into the lee of the barn. It had obviously been rebuilt, but one pockmarked wall was original, judging by the bullet holes.

"Nous allons à Arras," she said slowly so that Shirley could understand. "We go. We go to Gustave. You go dans le chariot."

She indicated the cart. When Shirley frowned, Adèle hoisted herself up and shifted a few bales to reveal a narrow space between the bottom rows.

 _Lovely._

"Dans le foin," she said. "En silence. Ça va bien?"

No, it bloody well wasn't _bien_ , but it made sense. If Shirley attempted to walk through a checkpoint, he'd have to speak and that would never do. He and Mireille had snuck into whatever town that had been for the church meeting, but they had been lucky, or reckless according to Gustave. Still, at least sneaking had given them the option of running in an emergency. If Shirley were discovered hiding in the hay, that was curtains for all three of them. Maybe Mireille should stay behind . . .

Something tugged at the hem of the barn coat and Shirley looked down to see a curious lamb testing the fabric between its teeth.

"Espèce de glouton! Tu vas faire échouer sa mission!" Mireille scolded the lamb, pulling it away with a giggle.

"Ce'st pas drôle, Mireille," Adèle chided. She began to explain the plan in slow, simple words. After two months with Mireille, Shirley was fairly confident that he understood the gist of it. They would enter the city of Arras bound for its market to sell their lambs and hay, which at least had the virtue of being true. They would stay overnight with a butcher Adèle knew well and Gustave would come to collect Shirley and Mireille. He would take them on to meet the person who had agreed to take custody of Shirley. Whether he would be greeted as a comrade or a prisoner was unclear, but if there was even a chance of speaking with someone who might listen, it was worth the risk.

Thus, Shirley found himself bumping down a rutted French road in Adèle's cart, trying to remain perfectly still and silent. Mireille followed behind, correcting wayward lambs with a long stick, though Shirley could no longer see her. He pulled his hat down low over his ears and prayed that the hay dust wouldn't make him sneeze. Luckily, it was still cold and the road sparsely travelled. Once, Shirley recognized the roar of a motorcycle engine passing mere feet from where he lay, but it did not stop.

As they trundled along, Shirley turned the plan over in his mind. It was good to know that Gustave hadn't just been sitting on his ass all this time, though Shirley didn't trust the man farther than he could throw him. Even if he did pass Shirley along to a higher level of the Resistance, wouldn't the problem be the same? He still had no way to prove who he was. If they would just let him get a message through to SOE or the RAF, he could set things straight, but that wouldn't happen as long as Gustave held the reins. In any case, Shirley wasn't going back to that hut in the woods. If he didn't make any headway tonight, he would set out for Spain on his own, help or no help.

Shirley looked down toward his glowing watch.

 _Shit._

His watch.

Shirley tugged on his sleeve and glove trying to cover it, but no dice. He supposed it didn't matter much; if the Germans found him hiding like this, he might as well be wearing his dress uniform and singing _God Save the King_. In fact, it would probably be _better_ for him if he were wearing his dress uniform, rather than civilian duds that made him look like a spy. Still, the Radiolite was a security risk and he should have gotten rid of it long ago. What if someone spotted the glow? Besides, if they managed to get into Arras, he couldn't go walking around wearing it.

Cursing his thoughtlessness, Shirley unhooked the watch and held it in his palm to hide the radium. When they reached Arras, he'd find a privy or a well and get rid of it for good.

*/*/*

"Ihre Papiere, bitte."

The cart had rolled to a gentle stop at the checkpoint on the city limits and Shirley could hear calm German voices over the piteous bleating of the lambs. He willed every muscle still, though his heart beat on traitorously.

From the cart seat, Adèle had handed over her identification papers and was chatting pleasantly about lambs and Easter and her butcher friend in Arras, who had already spoken for half the lambs and had a colleague interested in the rest. Yes, we'll be staying overnight with his family. Wouldn't dream of breaking curfew.

There was a second voice as well, speaking to Mireille, though it was harder to hear that end of things, on account of the lambs.

"Das Heu?" said one of the guards, poking at a bale.

 _Stay still. Stay still._

Adèle responded with impressive calm, but was cut off mid-reply by a commotion among the flock. Something had happened and suddenly there were lambs screeching with indignation from every side of the cart.

Shirley coiled himself like a spring. If he were exposed, there was no real chance of escape, but he'd fight if there was even a chance the others might get away . . .

"Désolée! J'vous demande pardon!" Mireille cried sweetly.

A German voice said something reassuring and she giggled. Shirley strained to hear what was being said, but the lambs were frantic and he only caught fragments.

. . . _espèce d'agneau maudit_ . . .

. . . _ta jupe_ . . .

. . . _boueux_ . . .

The voices did not sound angry or tense, though. Soon, the two guards' voices moved to the sides of the cart, evidently helping to herd the lambs back to their proper place. Mireille was effusive in her thanks and laughed a little between repeated apologies.

Soon, they were joined by the sound of another horse, or perhaps a pair of horses in the road, and Shirley guessed that another market cart had arrived. Indeed, the soldiers gave a brusque command and the wheels began to turn again, leading the flock toward Arras. When the cart began to rattle over cobbled streets, Shirley resumed breathing.

*/*/*

"Gustave devrait être ici," Mireille said, peering around the wall of the butcher's shed.

Shirley shifted his weight, wishing he had a weapon other than his one good fist and wondering how badly the butcher would miss one of his cleavers.

After helping Adèle deliver her lambs to their doom, Shirley and Mireille had taken shelter in the little shed behind the holding pen where the butcher would resume his bloody work in the morning. Gustave wasn't due to fetch them until after midnight, so Mireille had napped while Shirley whittled a bit of kindling down to shavings. He checked his watch half a dozen times, itching to put it back on his wrist, but knowing it was safer not to. It stayed in his pocket, safe, but out of sight.

Now midnight had come and gone and it was somehow growing darker. Shirley squinted over the holding pen, blinking as if the problem might be his eyes. But no, the moonlight really was was disappearing.

He looked up, thinking that perhaps a storm was rolling in. The inky sky was full of stars gleaming at full brilliance, unobscured by clouds. It was only the moon growing dull as a rust-colored shadow passed across its face, eating it up sliver by sliver.

An eclipse.

Shirley felt a begrudging admiration for Gustave, realizing that it would indeed be safer to defy curfew when the moon went dark. He wondered whether the Lizzies were flying tonight and said a prayer for any pilot who was losing his light.

"Psst!"

Shirley and Mireille turned to see Gustave emerging around a corner. He made eye contact with Shirley, then jerked his head for them both to follow.

Across one deserted back lot and another, the three moved in silence, staying close to the walls and pausing often to listen for patrols. All the time, the moonlight grew fainter, disappearing by degrees until only a thin glow showed at the rim. In the near-total darkness, Shirley nearly missed Gustave ducking into a shadowed alley. The older man waited near some trash bins for Shirley and Mireille to catch up, then pushed open a door and disappeared inside.

Shirley took a deep breath and stepped through, Mireille on his heels.

They were in a kitchen. A large one. There were tiled floors and a high ceiling that echoed when Gustave bumped against a table. The place smelled of yeast and vanilla and Shirley felt a childish longing for Susan.

 _Focus._

 _Breathe._

 _Evaluate your surroundings._

 _Exits._

 _Weapons._

 _There's probably a good sharp knife around here somewhere._

Gustave shushed them, though he was the only one making any noise.

"Nous attendons ici," he said.

Mireille protested that they had already waited a long time, a hint of challenge in her voice.

Gustave hissed her down, explaining in a harsh whisper that she would wait as long as he told her to wait. Shirley didn't catch all of it, but to hear Gustave tell it, it had been something of an ordeal to report his predicament up through the ranks until it reached the attention of someone prepared to do something about it. Apparently there hadn't been many takers.

The warm-scented kitchen wanted to lull him into comfort, but Shirley didn't know exactly where they were or who they were supposed to be meeting and he didn't like it, not a bit. There must be some way to convince whoever had summoned them that Shirley was who he said he was. He just needed someone to take a chance on him. The road home started right here.

The eclipse began to recede, cool moonlight returning to bathe the kitchen in blue and silver. A row of ovens along one wall came into focus, along with a counter lined with mixing bowls and trays. A bakery.

A door opened at the far end of the room, its hinges whispering as it swung wide and then shut again. The shadows moved and a tall man emerged, his face shrouded by the night. This was it.

Then the man stepped into the moonlight and Shirley's knees turned to water.

"Just as I suspected," the man drawled in English. "I'm trying to keep my nose clean, see? But all month, I'm hearing chatter from the Frogs about some surly Lysander pilot causing trouble. Everyone wants to know: Is he dead? Is he not dead? Is he a spy? Is he not a spy? And get this: they say he's Canadian. So I says to myself, _surely_ there must be any number of pain-in-the-ass Canadian flyboys who exist solely to make my life more difficult. So I ask some questions and I get some interesting answers. But I had to see for myself. And here you are."

Shirley stared. He could barely speak through a throat gone painfully tight, but he managed a single word: "Wilkie."

Wilkie Marshall was older and thinner, but the vulpine smile was exactly the same. "Hello, Shirley."

The next moment, they were in one another's arms, clinging tight. They stayed that way for a long, long time.

* * *

Notes:

* _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 34: "Una Visits the Hill"

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 29, "Wounded and Missing"

Special thanks to mavors4986 for the French and MrsVonTrapp for the encouragement.

To the Guest wondering why Sam and Wally have the same middle name (Meredith), I gave it as a mark of respect for Faith. I think all four of Jem and Faith's kids have Meredith as a middle name.

KatherineWithAC: Thank you for your lovely review! I'm so glad that you found the cliffhanger effective. Indeed, Zoe will make sure to break the "Walter" curse. And yes, you are right — Cordelia Meredith goes by Dellie. Thanks for taking the time to leave such a detailed review - I was really delighted to get it!


	61. Wireless Communications

**Wireless Communications**

* * *

March 1942

* * *

Shirley was not sure what he had expected of Wilkie's apartment. An hour ago, he had not expected that Wilkie _had_ an apartment, nor that he was in France, nor that he continued to walk the earth in the living, breathing, somehow-still-smelling-of-sandalwood flesh.

They had not stayed long at the bakery. Gustave marched Mireille off for safekeeping and Wilkie had led Shirley across the deserted street to a stucco-fronted residential building with flowerboxes hanging from the windows and paint peeling from the door. On the third floor landing, he produced a key and was soon inside, lighting enough lamps to bring the apartment into focus.

It was small. Comfortable, but not luxurious. Certainly no velvet to be seen, unless you counted a threadbare cushion that was still moderately fuzzy around the edges. There was a living area with a sofa and an enamel-top table and blackout curtains over the windows. Nothing so grand as a kitchen here, only a corner dedicated to the sink and cupboard. The stove appeared to be rarely used, unlike the paper-piled desk visible through the open study door. Besides the bathroom, the only other door led to Wilkie's bedroom.

"I see you've been converted to the cause of frugal living," Shirley observed.

"Yep," Wilkie agreed, taking mismatched glasses from the dish drainer. "I am but a humble bakery owner, living within my means."

Shirley snorted, but Wilkie arched a black brow as he filled the cups with red wine.

"It's true enough. I own the bakery. And this building."

"Why?"

"Everyone has to make a living." Wilkie held out the second cup, their fingers brushing as Shirley accepted the glass.

"You're no baker," Shirley declared. There was an angle here. He couldn't see what it was yet, but it was here somewhere.

"Did I say I was?" Wilkie leaned against the stove and took a long sip of wine. "I brought in a pastry chef from Berlin to do all that. Max. Good fellow. Keeps the occupiers in rye bread and Splitterbrötchen."

"You trust a German?" Shirley asked, surprised.

"I trust plenty of Germans," Wilkie said airily. "Max is a friend from the old days, see? You'd like him; he used to be quite the card player. Besides, he doesn't know anything but recipes. You'd be amazed how much goodwill you can stockpile by providing cookies to homesick NCOs."

The reference to "the old days" caught Shirley's attention. Wilkie might know him, but he didn't know Wilkie, at least not a Wilkie who lived in poky little Arras, messing with German pastries and taking clandestine meetings under the eclipse. But he was with the Resistance, wasn't he?

"Can you get me home?" Shirley asked. "I need a Lysander pickup. Can you arrange it? Or find me someone who can?"

Wilkie slid a little smile around the rim of his glass, an expression Shirley remembered all too well. "I can. In theory. Though the truth is that I'm between wireless operators at the moment."

"Between wireless operators?"

Wilkie snorted. "This may come as a surprise to you, Blythe, but we suffered a rather serious security breach in this region recently and my contacts are a bit scattered. Not that wireless operators last long at the best of times, but this certainly isn't. Perhaps you noticed that your people are a few agents short as well? They're the ones you really need to arrange things."

"But you can find one?"

There was an unmistakable plea in the question and Shirley would have been embarrassed if he hadn't been so genuinely desperate. Wilkie had the good grace not to gloat too much.

"Yes, I can find one."

It wasn't a boast, just the truth. More than that, it was a promise that hung between them as they sipped their wine in this little lantern-lit kitchen in the eye of the storm.

"Why are you here, Wilkie?" Shirley asked at long last.

Wilkie refilled both of their cups. "I suppose I should ask you the same thing."

"You know I was flying runs from England."

"And you were in England because . . ."

Shirley gave a short, sharp laugh. "Because there's a war on?"

Wilkie was already halfway through his second glass of wine. "And you couldn't keep your nose out of it?"

How strange to be chided by Wilkie, who never kept his nose out of anything. Shirley felt he must defend himself but wondered if it were any use trying to explain why he'd felt he couldn't just sit at home and watch the world burn.

"You didn't answer the question," Shirley said. "Why are you here? In France?"

"I've had business interests in this region for a long time," Wilkie said airily. "There are coal mines just north of here."

"Own one of those, too?"

"I did," he said simply.

"A coal mine?"

"You didn't think I'd just let all that money sit in a vault gathering dust, did you?"

No, Shirley had expected that it would run through his fingers like water. Evidently not.

"Why Arras, though?"

Wilkie rolled his shoulder in the sort of shrug that didn't bother apologizing for only revealing a sliver of the truth.

"It called me back."

That's right; he'd been here before. Where was it he'd lost his company? Hill 70? Vimy Ridge? That was only a couple of miles from here. There would have been other Canadians around until the war broke out, what with the national monument at Vimy Ridge being so close. Shirley wondered briefly whether Wilkie had crossed paths with Jem and Jerry during the pilgrimage in '36. But no, Wilkie wasn't sentimental; the place wouldn't mean anything to him, would it?

"You'll forgive me if I'm surprised to find you such a devoted Canadian patriot," Shirley said.

Wilkie guffawed. "Hardly. I've been French on paper for years."

"French? Not German?"

"I've always had a soft spot for France. I was expelled from some of its finest boarding schools in my youth. Besides, the Frogs were tossing citizenship at anyone who wandered past in the 20s. That's when I bought this place. Establish residency and all. I was still in Berlin most of the time, but I was back and forth often for business."

"And you're still here? I'd have thought you'd been off to London or Zurich long ago."

Wilkie raised his glass in mock toast. " _Wir haben noch viel zu tun._ "

Less an explanation than a slogan of some sort. Almost a battle cry.

"Sorry, I don't speak German," Shirley said.

Wilkie sucked in a breath through his teeth, but shrugged with studied nonchalance. "It means there's still plenty of work for us to do."

"Work? I'm surprised you didn't hightail it off the Continent years ago. The rumors we've heard about Berlin . . . it didn't seem like a place you'd want to stay."

Shirley could deal with a Wilkie who doled out snappy retorts or ironic dismissals. He wasn't quite sure what to do with a Wilkie who swallowed louder than he spoke and dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Well, it turns out you were right about that after all, Blythe."

"Right about what?"

"About staying somewhere you really shouldn't. For someone."

Shirley half-expected he was being roped in, but the punchline never came. Instead, Wilkie looked resolutely into his empty cup, as if he couldn't meet Shirley's eye.

"You had someone to stay for?" Shirley asked cautiously.

Wilkie did not answer. Instead, he clicked his empty cup into the sink basin and strode briskly for the bedroom.

"You can sleep on the sofa in here," he said, returning with two blankets that he tossed onto the cushions in a heap. "Or the floor. Whatever you like. But take a shower first. You smell like you've been living in a barn."

"If only."

Wilkie pursed his lips, snapping back to form. "You can borrow some decent clothes, too. You look like a tramp."

Shirley let the conversation go, accepting a set of clean clothes and a bar of creamy soap redolent of vanilla and scrubbed pine floors, and headed for the bathroom.

Perhaps he would have pondered the mysteries of Wilkie's love life in the shower, but there were too many urgent questions jockeying for space. How long could he stay in this apartment without being discovered? Could Wilkie really arrange a Lysander extraction? How long would it take? Could he really make contact with an agent before the April moon? Even if he couldn't, could he get a message through to England? If there was a shortage of wireless operators in these parts, maybe the RAF hadn't heard about the dead man wearing his jacket. Without clear answers, what would his official status be? Missing? Presumed dead? Carl would know that something was wrong by now, but if Shirley could just get a message through, maybe Grayson could send it on.

Shirley toweled himself dry, not so preoccupied that he didn't relish the small pleasures of soap and hot water after so long living in squalor. He had long ago used his corkscrew to bore new holes in his belt, but it was still alarming to see himself unclothed, hip bones sharp and ribs visible. No wonder he hadn't been able to keep warm. Shirley shaved with Wilkie's razor and put on the clean clothes, noting that provincial bakery owners apparently still ran to silk underwear. The shirt fit in the shoulder, even if it billowed, and the cloth was plain, but of good quality, soft and supple. Shirley reached for his own SOE-issued clothing to collect the meager contents of his pockets: the much-diminished roll of cash, the old corkscrew knife, the wa . . .

 _The watch._

Where was the watch?

Shirley turned out his old pockets, actually flipped them inside out, every one, but the watch was not there. He had put it in his pocket when he climbed out of the cart. But he'd checked it after that, when they were waiting for Gustave. Took it out and put it back in his pocket. Had he seen it since?

Shirley burst out of the bathroom.

"Have you seen my wristwatch?" he demanded, none too quietly.

Wilkie, who had been lying on the made-up sofa with an arm over his eyes sat bolt upright.

" _Shhhhh!_ The downstairs neighbors are our people, but I can't vouch for everyone on the block . . ."

" _My watch_ ," Shirley hissed. "I had it earlier tonight and now it's gone."

"Traditionally, wristwatches are worn on the wrist, my friend. I noticed you've misplaced a couple of fingers, but I wouldn't have thought . . ."

"Dammit, Wilkie, I'm not kidding! Where's my watch?"

Wilkie rattled his head like a dog shaking off water. "I don't know. In case you haven't noticed, it's been rather a long night. Could you have dropped it somewhere without noticing?"

Possibly. He'd checked it again and again waiting for Gustave, then that dash through the streets, then the bakery and an embrace that had wiped out all other thoughts. It could have fallen somewhere.

"It's an Ingersoll Radiolite," Shirley explained, reining in the desperation that was roiling his guts. "If someone finds it, they'll wonder how it got to France."

"My, my, an _Ingersoll Radiolite_ ," Wilkie sneered, rising from the couch. "Did you win a lottery or something?"

"It's a security risk," Shirley growled.

"Then you should have gotten rid of it."

"I know. It's important, though."

Wilkie heaved the long-suffering sigh of the eternally put-upon. "I'll take a look at the bakery. Keep my eyes open. For your watch. And, you know, a breathing wireless operator. Any other small requests, Blythe?"

Shirley swallowed a retort. For the first time, he considered that Wilkie might, in fact, be human, and as such might have human limitations of knowledge and influence and patience.

"No," he said instead. "I didn't mean . . ."

Wilkie was already at the door, putting on his overcoat.

"I didn't mean you should go now," Shirley said. "The curfew . . ."

Wilkie checked his own watch, a sleek, silver disk with its very own pocket. "It's after four. Baking time."

"You haven't slept," Shirley said, feeling stupid when he said it and stupider when Wilkie laughed.

"Jesus Christ, Blythe, I should have left you to Gustave's tender mercies. You're going to be the death of me yet."

Shirley said nothing, merely watching as Wilkie donned hat, gloves, and scarf.

"Make yourself at home," Wilkie said, gesturing expansively. "By which I mean don't say anything or do anything or go anywhere. Keep the blackout curtains drawn. Just sit. Stay."

Shirley bristled, but tamped down the tight anger in his chest. How did Wilkie do this to him? Fifteen years apart, a miraculous meeting, and within an hour he was half ready to punch him in the face. More than half.

"Is there a contingency plan?" Shirley asked through an unmoving jaw. "In case things go bad?"

"Sure," Wilkie shrugged. He crossed to the cupboard and rummaged in the back for what purported to be a bag of flour. With a flourish, he produced a broom-handled Mauser and set it on the table, thin black barrel stark against the white enamel.

"You sleep tight now," he said, sweeping through the door. "And if you need anything else, go fuck yourself."

* * *

No one met Carl at the station, but that was alright. He had only a small valise to carry and it was only three miles to the little gray house halfway between the Glen and Lowbridge. The roadside was dotted with crocuses peeking through the still-bare ground in stands of white and purple, and a murmuration of starlings wheeled over the bare fields in an undulating cloud.

Carl had been anxious about going to Kingsport, but now that it was over, he was glad that he had. Aster House was still the refuge it had always been, and it had been so very good to see Anthony in the flesh, all friendly warmth and calm reassurance. The boys were getting so big and Gladys was such a bright little thing, peppering Carl with questions about every bug they had seen on their walk through the park. They had all come to see Carl off that morning, even Edith, and Gladys had given him a garden pebble painted like a ladybird.

Now he was nearly home and anxious to hear all the news, even though he hadn't been away very long. How were things at Ingleside? Had Una gone to speak with Daniel? Had he proposed? Carl didn't dare let himself hope, but maybe, just maybe, had there been any mail for him?

There was one last bend in the road ahead. Carl rounded it and stopped dead.

There was a car parked in front of the house.

A Cadillac.

Dr. Blythe's Cadillac.

Carl stared at it. The valise slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud at his feet, popping open and letting shirts and underwear tumble into the road. He stared at those, too, red muck soaking into the cloth and spreading blotchy, rust-colored ruin. Dazed, Carl bent and shoved his clothes back into the bag, but try as he might, he couldn't get the clasp to close. His hands felt blunt and clumsy, and eventually he just let it be and walked up to the house with laundry spilling out of the open top.

The house was very quiet. Where was Muggins? Why wasn't she tripping them both in her eagerness to say _welcome back_? Where was Una? He would have called a greeting, but he still had these few precious seconds — setting down his bag, hanging up his coat, pulling off his muddy shoes — and he did not wish to hasten their end.

It was only a very short walk to the living room, and only so long Carl could delay, unless he wanted to put his shoes back on and flee for the station, returning to Kingsport empty-handed and ignorant. What you don't know can't hurt you, right?

But let it never be said that Carl Meredith was craven.

The living room was silent, but not empty. Una sat with Dr. and Mrs. Blythe, an assortment of uneaten cookies arrayed on the table before them. They rose when he entered, though no one said anything. Or, at least, if they did, Carl did not hear them. It was difficult to assemble disparate details into a coherent whole. A cushion had fallen from the couch; why had nobody picked it up? Una still wore her black armband, while Dr. and Mrs. Blythe were in full black; how long were grandparents supposed to stay in mourning? A month? A year?

They were all standing now and Mrs. Blythe took a step toward him. Carl noticed that her hand trembled as she held out a little envelope that he did not attempt to take.

"Missing," she said quietly once it became apparent that he wouldn't touch it. "Presumed dead."

"Missing?" said someone unfamiliar. "Well I already knew _that_ , didn't I?"

Someone laughed — a little crazily, Carl thought — though his vision went black before he could find out who it was.

* * *

The radio looked as if it had the flu. Shirley had swathed it in blankets and cradled it with pillows to keep the sound from carrying, even though he only intended to keep it at the lowest possible volume. Relocated from its table to the sofa, wrapped and reclining, it looked as though it might ask for some chicken soup at any moment.

The BBC was neither loud nor clear, but it was discernible. Shirley leaned close, trying not to miss a single word.

 _Australia is preparing to defend itself tonight, after communications with Java were cut off by the recent invasion by the Japanese. Major General Gordon Bennet, former commander of the Australian forces in Malaya who escaped after the fall of Singapore, has urged his countrymen to adopt an offensive stance toward further Japanese incursions._

 _Meanwhile, RAF bombers have struck the industrial sector West of Paris for the second time in a week, greatly damaging factories producing machinery, automobile, and aircraft parts. All listeners on the Continent are advised to_ _keep away from any work that is helping the Germans. The Royal Air Force is coming again more and more often_ _._

 _News from Cairo is that Free French troops have captured three Italian outposts in Fezzan . . ._

A footfall on the landing sent Shirley's fingers flying to silence the radio. Crossing the room on tiptoe, he retrieved the Mauser and stood perfectly still, waiting to see which way the cat would jump.

A key turned in the lock.

"Going to shoot me in my own home?" Wilkie asked as he stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him. He carried a lumpy brown paper bag with a baguette peeking out the top, and dripped rainwater across the floor as he folded his umbrella.

"You're home early. Are you obeying curfew now?"

Wilkie flopped down next to the ailing radio and pulled off his sodden boots. "For the moment, yes. Good to be seen complying from time to time. Besides, I have something for you."

Shirley looked toward the bag, but Wilkie dug in his pocket and came up holding something small that glinted in the lamplight. He tossed it carelessly across the room and Shirley scrambled to catch it before it hit the floor.

" _My watch_ ," he breathed. "Where was it?"

"Your little girlfriend found it. I hired her to do some scrubbing and she said she found it under one of the kneading tables."

That was possible. Still . . .

"I'd rather hear that directly from her," Shirley said, tightening the band around his wrist.

"Oh sure," Wilkie agreed amiably. "I'll just host a dinner party up here. Invite all your friends for a cozy chat. Anyone else you'd like to put on the guest list? General von Falkenhausen, perhaps? I can probably get Hitler himself if you give me a couple of days . . ."

The sensation of tight frustration was growing all too familiar. A burning in the back of the throat, the simultaneous feeling that he had said exactly the wrong thing and that Wilkie had wronged him in return, though it was hard to say exactly how. Shirley would have said he didn't want to fight, but he could never seem to stop himself.

"I'm sorry," he said, mustering an outsized effort to de-escalate. "Thank you for the watch."

Wilkie pressed his lips together and Shirley recognized the same internal struggle at work.

"You're welcome," he said civilly. "Besides, the girl really did find it."

"Mireille."

"What?"

"The girl's name is Mireille."

Wilkie rolled his eyes and gathered up his boots.

"I had forgotten," he said lazily as he headed for the bedroom, "that Meredith's name isn't really Carl. _TCM_ stumped me for a minute. But I gather everything's hunky-dory back in Eden if you're so keen on mementos."

 _Don't snap back._

"Is there any way to get a message through to Canada?" Shirley asked. "A letter, I mean, not wireless."

His bait having failed, Wilkie resigned himself to mundanities. "We can't send any letters from the Occupied Zone, and everything out of Vichy is heavily censored. The Lysanders do mail pickups. But if we can get near one of those, you can just send your own mail from Blighty."

"Can you really get me a pickup?"

Wilkie stopped in the bedroom door, nearly filling it, and quirked an odd little smile Shirley-ward. Not his usual sly smirk, but something that Shirley might have called _wistful_ if he thought Wilkie capable of the emotion.

"I'm working on it, Blythe. I really am."

* * *

Notes:

Big thanks to kslchen for help with German phrase and identifying appropriate pastries.

News taken from the _Charlottetown Guardian_ , March 1942.


	62. Dear Uncle Carl

**Dear Uncle Carl**

* * *

March 1942

* * *

Carl woke in his own bed. The room was black but for the flickering of a single candle flame washing up the far wall in nervous ripples. He might have been in a cave or a coal mine, cold as it was. Where was Muggins?

The absence jolted him into remembrance and he sat bolt upright, gasping.

Something moved in the corner; no, _someone_. Someone tall and broad crossing the room toward him and for a dizzy moment, he thought . . .

"Hello, Carl," said Dr. Blythe gently. "How is your head?"

Carl couldn't fathom the meaning of this and reached up to prod his scalp.

"You knocked it earlier," Dr. Blythe commented without saying exactly how. "Do you . . . do you remember anything?"

Carl found the sore spot but it was less than nothing, a dull little ache that hurt when he pressed it, but might have gone unnoticed if no one had mentioned it. He could have laughed.

"Really only one thing to remember, isn't there?"

Dr. Blythe nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you here anyway?" Carl muttered.

"To make sure you're alright."

Carl did laugh then, a thin sound that he recognized as hysterical, though he did not even attempt to curb it. " _Now?_ "

Dr. Blythe frowned and suddenly Carl couldn't stand the sight of him a single second longer. He didn't belong here. Not in this house. Certainly not in this room.

"Just go away," Carl said none too politely.

"I need to stay and make sure that . . ."

"No! I don't want you here."

"Now, you mustn't get upset, Carl," Dr. Blythe said in his most maddeningly placid tone. "You need rest. You need . . ."

" _I need you to get out of my house._ "

There were footsteps somewhere above and Carl realized that he had shouted, though he couldn't muster any regret over it. Dr. Blythe looked sorrowful, but that only made Carl want to shout louder. What right had he to come here, into this house and into this room and act as if he were concerned?

"You need someone to sit up with you," Dr. Blythe said coolly.

" _Not you._ "

Dr. Blythe's frown had acquired an edge of annoyance. "I'm only trying to help . . ."

There it was again, that deranged laughter that seemed to be coming from elsewhere. It was like being in a cinema where the sound was playing from the back of the hall while the images were projected onto the screen at the front and the viewer in the middle could never quite reconcile the gap. He was still laughing when Dr. Blythe took up his bag and when he left the room and when the front door clattered shut, though he began weeping sometime after and couldn't have said where the join came in.

*/*/*

There were birds singing the next time he opened his eye. Traitors. They ought to keep a couple of cats around here. Better yet, some minks. A whole passel of 'em. Let them slink around the house and gobble up nestlings and then let them see what there was to sing about.

And where on earth was that dog? Maybe she wasn't psychic like old Monday, but she should still be _here_.

Carl was on the point of going to investigate when a quiet scratching at the door announced Una's arrival.

"Can I do anything for you?" she whispered.

"Where's Muggins?"

"Outside."

"You didn't leave her out there all night did you?" Carl growled, throwing back the quilt and stalking toward his sister. He only meant to go let Mugsy in from the cold — Una hadn't really kept her outside overnight, had she? — but he moved too quickly and pushed past too roughly and Una staggered backward a step, narrowly keeping her balance.

"Sorry," Carl gasped, reaching out to steady her. "Oh, Una. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you."

"It's quite alright," she said, though she didn't look him in the face.

It wasn't until Carl had Muggins tucked safe into bed beside him that he went to remove his eyepatch and realized he'd never put it on. And why should he? He was done with appearances, done with manners and decorous little lies that made other people more comfortable. If he could have laid hands on it at the moment, he would have tossed the patch into the stove.

*/*/*

Rosemary was sitting beside the bed. Carl took one look at her and turned over, pulling the quilt up around his ears.

"I have some soup here," she said lightly.

"Good. I'm sure the dog's hungry by now."

"Would you like me to bring you some tea?"

"I would like you to leave me alone."

The chair scraped against the floor. Carl expected to hear the door, but instead he felt a light kiss on the top of his head.

"I'll just be out in the kitchen. Call if you get thirsty."

Carl wanted to growl that he wouldn't be thirsty and he wouldn't call even if he was, but the soft hand on his shoulder was going to make him cry again, so he bit his cheek and said nothing until it disappeared.

Some time passed. Hours? Days? It couldn't possibly matter. Whenever Carl woke, there was a glass of water and a plate of bread and cheese on his nightstand. He felt ashamed when he finally gave in and took a sip. It was a necessity, but that didn't make it any better. In fact, it was awful to have needs that could be met.

*/*/*

Father was there.

"There's going to be a service," he said.

"I'm not going."

"Sometimes it can help . . ."

"I said I'm not going."

"That's alright. You don't have to. I just wanted to make sure you had the chance, in case you wanted to attend. Are you sure you don't?"

Carl sat up in bed and faced his father. "Do I get to be _his beloved Carl_ in the eulogy?"

John Meredith's unease bobbed in his throat.

"I didn't think so," Carl muttered, turning his back.

*/*/*

Mrs. Blythe came by. Carl would have sent her out immediately, but she was holding an envelope. A different one this time.

"We've had a letter from Squadron Leader Grayson," she said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the chair. "I thought you might like to have it."

Carl sat up, not because he wanted to, but because he felt less exposed than he did lying down.

"Those letters are all lies, you know," he snarled. " _Killed instantly by a single bullet_. Nobody ever really dies that way. They just put it in the letters so that people back home can imagine that nobody really suffers. But it's all lies."

Mrs. Blythe was whiter than the envelope in her hand, her mouth so thin that her face was nearly all eyes.

"It's yours by rights," she said, laying the letter on the quilt and rising to her feet.

"Gee, thanks. I'll treasure it always."

She went away and didn't come back. Carl tried to throw the letter across the room, but it refused to go more than a few inches, fluttering back onto the edge of the bed until he crumpled it into a ball and flung it against the opposite wall.

*/*/*

Carl had the quilt tucked over his head, but he could hear the clink of silverware against china as someone carried a tray into the room.

"I'm not hungry, Una."

"It's not Una, silly," Faith said. The dishes rattled somewhere in the vicinity of the dresser and she sat down on the bed beside her brother, who only pulled the covers tighter around his face.

"I'm not taking visitors at the moment."

"Yes, Jerry mentioned. Didn't have to bite his head off, did you?"

"I just told him the same as everyone."

"Which is?"

" _Go away_."

"But Jerry's not really the same as everyone," Faith mused, not budging an inch. "He's your brother and he loves you and he loves Shirley."

"He didn't love Shirley," Carl grumbled.

"Well, you're wrong there," Faith said comfortably. "We love the people who make the people we love happy. That doesn't mean we have to _like_ them all the time. Take Nan. Did I ever tell you about Nan on our trip to France? We were getting ready to go out to the memorial for the dedication and she kept changing her stockings. I forget why. The wrong color or the wrong weather or something. Back and forth and back and forth with the stockings til we were running late."

Carl peeked up over the edge of the covers, scowling at his sister. At sight of her, he felt a pang of remorse. The flat black of her mourning dress didn't suit her at all. Neither did the dark smudges around her eyes. Well, Carl probably wasn't looking his best either.

"What does Nan have to do with anything?" he muttered.

"I was ready to clobber her," Faith said. "I'm certain I shouted that no one was going to pay any attention to her legs and if they did, they could go hang. Then I spent the whole ride stewing over it."

"So?"

"So we were standing there, waiting for the ceremony to start, and I was still mad. But then Jerry was staring out over that wide open ridge, just frozen, looking out over all the shell holes until Nan took his hand and whispered something to him and he came back to us. I loved her so much. Because _he_ loved her."

Carl snorted. "Did _you_ love Shirley?"

"I still do."

"He's dead, Faith."

Faith lay down on the pillow beside him, noses nearly touching, and put a hand on his quilt-covered shoulder. "That's not what I read."

" _Missing, Presumed Dead_ just means _Dead_."

The hand moved from shoulder to cheek, caressing Carl's uncovered face and not looking away, not even at very close range.

"It just so happens that I have a bit of experience with this," she whispered.

Carl bristled at the thought, guarding his grief jealously from any comparison. But if it was true that his sorrow was unique in its details, even Carl had to admit that it was not wholly unprecedented in the annals of human emotion.

"What did you do?" he asked.

Faith's expression was too sad to be called a smile, but it was gentle nonetheless. "I wrote to Una. Lots. I threw myself into my work with my patients. I spent a lot of time in the hospital chapel. And I put myself in God's hands."

"Really?"

"You know why Jemmy is named Jemima, don't you? For the daughter of Job. I promised God I would name a daughter that, after my blessings had been restored to me."

Carl leaned his cheek against his sister's black-clad shoulder. "Jem was young," he sniffled. "He was as strong as an ox and as lucky as the Devil."

"That may be," Faith conceded, stroking his hair. "But no one's gotten rich yet betting against those Blythe boys."

It felt odd to smile even a grudging little half smile.

"I'm sorry, Faith," Carl said. "I know you're having an awfully bad time of it, too."

"I'm feeling a little better at the moment," she said. "Do you mind if I stay awhile?"

*/*/*

Muggins lifted her head before the knock, ears alert and tail wagging. She hopped down from the bed and greeted Di with ecstatic wriggles, pawing at her knees until Di knelt to scratch the little dog behind the ears. Mugsy was less enthusiastic about Anthony, but allowed his entrance after he offered her an open hand to sniff.

Carl didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter. Di had her arms around him and there was no need to put their sorrow into words.

When their sobs had subsided, Carl mopped his face on a pajama sleeve and looked up to find Anthony hovering uncertainly by the door, hat in hand, face tracked with tears. Luckily, it was a big bed, with plenty of room for three.

*/*/*

Carl had donned fresh pajamas and combed his hair. He had even put his eyepatch back in place, having fished it from beneath the bed where it had fallen however many days ago. Now he sat propped against his pillows, waiting for Una to bring his soup. It wasn't that he felt hungry, but he was awfully sorry for being such a trial to her and it seemed a kindness to answer _Can I do anything for you?_ with a specific request.

Di and Anthony had gone up to Ingleside for dinner, though they had declined Faith's invitation to stay the night. The little gray house might not be spacious, but there was a camp bed in the sewing room for whoever wasn't keeping the night watch. They'd be back before dark.

But for now, the house was finally quiet. With things calmer, Carl marveled that there had been such a rush. Even Jem had come by, telling Carl that he should feel free to summon him at any hour of day or night if he ever wanted to talk, and not just about medical matters. What a change from the long-ago spring when Shirley had gone a different sort of missing and Una had held Carl together on her own.

He had never thanked her properly. Not for what she had done for him then, and not for what she was still doing for him now. Carl's face flushed when he recalled pushing past her in his desperation to find Muggins that first day. No matter how he had been feeling, he had treated her abominably and meant to apologize.

When Una brought the tray, Carl noticed that she was wearing black instead of her customary blue. She'd worn an armband for Wally, but claimed a larger share of this grief. Carl wondered idly how much black clothing he owned. It hadn't really come up yet in the matter of pajamas, though he'd dye those too if Una would only show him how.

She set the food on the dresser and unfolded a convalescent's bed table, setting its little feet on either side of Carl's knees. The tray she placed on top was laden with soup and biscuits and a glass of milk. There was a little vase of purple crocuses as well, and two envelopes. One was the letter Mrs. Blythe had brought, uncrumpled as far as possible. The other was new. Carl's heart lurched to see _On Active Service_ over the RAF censor stamp, but Shirley Blythe never wrote chicken scratch like that.

"Rosemary brought this over this morning," Una said, indicating the soup of white beans and kale. "There's a butternut squash soup, too, though I thought you might like a bit of protein. There's cheese in the biscuits as well."

"Thanks, Una," he croaked, tearing his gaze away from the letter.

She sat beside him and took his hand. "I'm sorry I didn't notice you hadn't had a letter in a while. I suppose I thought you were just getting to the mail first. Why didn't you tell me?"

Carl grimaced. "There was so much else happening. Wally. And Daniel. I didn't want to burden you when I didn't know anything for sure."

"We still don't."

"Please don't," he said quietly. "I don't think I can stand to hold out hope."

 _Dead_ was awful. But hope, _torturing, agonized hope that keeps you from ever being quite resigned to the worst_ . . .* Carl shuddered and tried to turn his mind toward the mundane.

"I wanted to apologize," he said. "For being such a bear toward you."

Una squeezed his hand. "Please don't."

"I have to. No matter what I was feeling . . . I should have been more considerate. I'm sorry for pushing you. And for yelling. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Carl."

They sat in silence a while, watching the soup go cold.

"Have you seen Daniel lately?" Carl asked with a ridiculous pretense of normalcy.

"Not since you were in Kingsport."

"You should go. Go right now if you like."

Una gave a tight smile. "Maybe some other time."

"When Di and Anthony get back."

She seemed to be weighing several possible answers, trying them out and discarding them one by one until Carl intervened.

"You keep asking what you can do for me," he said. "You could let me see you happy."

Una appeared to consider this, but only with the usual wistful smile, not the other one.

"I'll leave you to your soup," she said with a last press of fingers and was gone before he could protest.

* * *

 _Dear Uncle Carl,_

 _I won't say that I hope you are well because I know you aren't._

 _As soon as I heard that Uncle Shirley had gone missing, I knew straight away that I must write to you and send you my love and sympathy. That thought stopped me in my tracks like an elephant gun because it was clearly the right thing to do, even if I couldn't quite explain why._

 _But then I thought on some things I never really understood before. Just some little comments over the years and a few memories that started making more sense. Like how Uncle Shirley never got married, and the way Dad never wanted me out at the airfield, and that time Uncle Shirley sent me that whopper of a beetle from Venezuela. Uncle Shirley's not the one who likes bugs, is he? You were the only person he wanted when Susan Baker died. Well, I feel like a real dope, I tell you, not putting two and two together before now._

 _I'm writing this letter to say I'm sorry, and that I love both of you. I know that can't count for much with things as they are, but it's the plain truth. I suppose things are pretty hard for you right now, so I wanted to tell you that I haven't given up hope and neither should you. Uncle Shirley is a tough old bird and no mistake. We hear stories every day of airmen who were presumed dead on a mission and then they walk into the mess hall in fine fettle long after everyone has given them up for lost. That would be very like him, don't you think?_

 _Well, I don't know what else to say, so I won't go on. Just know that I am thinking of you and praying for Uncle Shirley and hoping everything will come out right in the end._

 _Give Mugsy a pat from me._

 _With love from_

 _Gil Ford_

* * *

 _Dear Gil,_

 _Thank you for your letter. I never expected it, but I was very glad to receive it. You are right — things are very hard at present and your letter and its salutation made me smile as nothing else has in quite a while._

 _I must warn you to take care what you put in letters, though. I'm not worried on my own account, as that hardly matters anymore. But I would hate to see you get into any trouble over a misunderstanding._

 _You should know that your uncle thought the world of you, Gil. Ever since you were a little boy, pestering him to throw you up in the air or playing with those balsa-wood gliders he used to build, he would always say you were a born pilot, and I don't think he had any higher praise to give. I remember the first time you landed the old Curtiss on your own, and he kept bringing it up in conversation for months after you'd gone back to Toronto. When you were at Camp Borden, he would write every week about what a fine job you were doing and how you would make a damned fine man one day if he could find a way to keep you alive long enough to grow up. The letter I got after you passed your wings test was practically bursting with pride — he said he was delighted to be the second-best pilot in the family._

 _I know he didn't say those things to your face, at least not very often. That wasn't his way. But don't think he didn't love you dearly. He would have walked barefoot over shards of glass for you without complaint and did it a couple of times, at least metaphorically._

 _Thank you for writing. It meant an awful lot to me._

 _Take care of yourself, for all our sakes._

 _Love,_

 _Uncle Carl_


	63. Above Reproach

**Above Reproach**

* * *

March 1942

* * *

 _To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:_  
 _A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;_  
 _A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;_  
 _A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;_  
 _A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;_  
 _A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;_  
 _A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;_  
 _A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace._

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

* * *

Una had only just poured the tea when a loud rumble came to a halt in front of the house and sent her head snapping toward the front door.

"I'll get it," Di said, already halfway down the hall before Una could protest.

The familiar voice at the door brought Una to her feet anyway, brushing a hand down the fall of her black dress to dislodge imaginary crumbs. She had missed church yet again, though she suspected Daniel had heard the reason why. Still, he wore a look of befuddlement when Di led him into the kitchen.

"Forgive me, Miss Meredith," Daniel said as he removed his hat. "I didn't realize that you had company this afternoon."

He flicked a gaze over Una's attire, brow knitting as he registered the full mourning that had replaced the armband she had donned for Wally. The house was clearly the epicenter of some awful grief, its inhabitants garbed in black and its kitchen crammed with _enough nourishing things to furnish forth a hospital_ _.*_

"You're most welcome to join us," Una said, slightly stilted. "Please let me introduce the Reverend Anthony Marckworth of the Second Presbyterian Church in Kingsport and Dr. Diana Blythe, also of Kingsport. This is Father Daniel Caldwell of St. Elizabeth's in Lowbridge."

Daniel shook both hands with a solemnity that matched the funereal attire of his new acquaintances.

"Very pleased to meet you," he said to Di. "Am I correct in remembering that you are one of Dr. Blythe's daughters?"

"I'm afraid that doesn't narrow things down much," Di said. "But yes, my father is the elder Dr. Blythe."

"Then I must offer you my sincere condolences on the loss of your brother."

"Thank you," Di said softly. "Though Shirley is only missing. Nothing has been confirmed."

Brave words, though they might have been uttered with more conviction by someone not dressed in unrelieved mourning.

"Won't you join us for tea, Father Caldwell?" Anthony asked, already drawing up another chair.

"Oh, well, I . . . I . . ." Daniel stammered. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to intrude. I only . . ."

He fumbled, round face going red until Una came to his rescue.

"Father Daniel is a wonderful gardener," she said to Di and Anthony. "I promised that I would show him our new bean trellis before Easter, but I haven't had a chance."

It was a transparent pretense, but Di and Anthony went along agreeably. They insisted that the only proper time for inspecting bean trellises was immediately, and before Una knew what had happened, she was wearing a heavy sweater and squishing through early-spring mud toward the garden. She overshot the target, leading Daniel to the pear-tree ridge where the ground was firmer and they might speak without being overheard.

"I'm sorry, Una," he said hesitantly.

"Whatever for?"

Confusion was written plainly across Daniel's face, and he seemed to be choosing his words with some deliberation as he ran the brim of his hat through his hands.

"I heard the news about Mr. Blythe . . . but . . . forgive me; I didn't realize that you were close."

"Shirley was my brother several times over," Una said. "And we were often thrown together when we were younger, both being rather quiet. We were quite close."

"I see," Daniel said miserably. "Yes, I had heard, well . . . _insinuations_ I suppose, that perhaps you had once been . . . um . . . _connected_ . . . to that family . . . though of course, I thought it was only your sister and brother . . . and you never mentioned . . . that is, you never spoke of Mr. Blythe . . . at least not to me . . ."

Una's eyes widened as the misunderstanding came into focus, but Daniel was looking at his shoes and didn't notice.

"I can see that you're in mourning," he continued, "and that your friends have come to care for you. That's all to the good, I suppose. Of course if there's ever any service I can perform for you, you need only ask and . . ."

He might have babbled on a good long while if Una hadn't silenced him by the simple act of reaching for his hand. This brought him up short and his eyes flew to meet hers, their brown depths revealing sorrow and not a little hurt.

"Di and Anthony aren't here for me," she said gently. "They're here for Carl."

"For Carl?"

"Yes."

Daniel's brow remained furrowed, his mouth cast downward at the edges. "Is Carl even here? I didn't see him."

"He's been unwell ever since we got word about Shirley . . ."

The frown deepened and Una felt a stab of fear. Perhaps she had said too much, and without permission.

"They were very good friends since childhood," she added hastily. "The best of friends."

It was a feeble fiction and Daniel was no fool.

"Carl?" he echoed dully, dropping Una's hand and looking as if he had been hit on the head by a hailstone on a sunny day. "And you? . . . They? . . . In your home?"

Una bristled at this garbled admonishment, her voice turning cool. "My home is Carl's home."

"And your friends . . . Dr. Blythe and Rev. Marckworth . . . they approve?"

"Of what?" Una asked, arms folded over her sweater. "Of caring for the bereaved? I dare say they do."

She left off the _Do you?_ which was loud enough even unspoken.

"I see."

Did he? Una peered at him and wondered whether perhaps she had misjudged Daniel. Did he really see Una and her calling?

"I know that a minister's family must always be above reproach," she said calmly, though her throat was beginning to burn. "When I was a child, my siblings and I went to great lengths to punish ourselves for any mischief that was _likely to hurt our father in the congregation_.** But Christ does not command us to love one another only as far as the bounds of decorum. Any home of mine will always be open to anyone."

"I see," Daniel said dazedly.

With a sinking heart, Una watched him work through the implications. Perhaps he had never really understood her after all. Maybe he had only ever wanted a dutiful helpmeet, docile and presentable, who would assist him in his work and cook better than Mrs. Williams. She had thought that Daniel understood that her charge went beyond what was asked of members of the Ladies' Aid and the Altar Guild. She belonged to Christ by way of St. Elizabeth, and was called to be His hands on earth, not to endear herself to respectable people. She had thought that they could fulfill that mission together. Perhaps not.

"Why . . ." he said haltingly, ". . . why am I only hearing about Mr. Blythe now?"

Una frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . there was someone close to you . . . someone you'd wear full mourning for . . . Why have I never even heard his name before now?"

Surely there couldn't be any real mystery there. "It wasn't safe. Carl . . ."

Daniel made a dismissive gesture. "I'm not talking about Carl. I'm talking about _you_. You . . . you say you love me. But I don't even know the names of the people closest to you? Why don't you trust me?"

Una blinked. Surely he understood _that_ at least. "There will always be things I can't tell you, Daniel."

" _Can't_ , Una?" he groaned. "Or _won't_? I'm afraid it's rather difficult to parse your ethics."

That stung enough to sharpen Una's distress into a little jolt of anger. "You know who I am and what I believe. I won't apologize for it."

Daniel gave a little wounded chortle. "So you'll just go on telling me what you want to tell me and nothing more? You won't even give me a chance to prove I'm trustworthy? You can't build a marriage on that, Una."

Una swallowed. Perhaps she could have been more forthcoming with Daniel, not about other people's lives, but about her own. Though after all these years, it seemed awfully difficult to differentiate.

She watched his face fall as he waited for an answer, waiting and waiting until he flinched and began to turn away.

"Wait!" she cried, relieved to find hope in the soft brown eyes. Could she really trust Daniel with something precious?

Una took a slow, shuddering breath. "It was Walter Blythe," she whispered. "Not Shirley. I fancied Walter, but I don't think he felt the same about me. He was killed at Courcelette. And I . . . _I knew love would never come into my life_ after that."***

Daniel took a tentative step toward her, reaching out a hand to cradle her elbow. She did not shake him off, but looked down at the hand and smiled softly. Wistfully.

"You still wear your wedding ring," she observed.

Daniel peered at his ring finger as if seeing it for the first time, then withdrew it and began to tug at the gold band. It did not budge.

Una winced. "No, you don't have to . . ."

Daniel twisted the ring back and forth, inching it toward the knuckle until it popped free and slid into his palm. He held it out to Una, but she shook her head, tracing the deep groove it had left in the base of his finger.

"I don't know much about her," Una said. "Louisa. You've only told me bits."

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Daniel said, round face earnest and open. "Will you tell me about Walter?"

It was cold under the pear trees, and muddy, but they dragged a wooden pallet over from the garden and sat, trading stories. They began with their old loves, Daniel spinning his ring between his fingertips, but soon moved on to other things. Una told of Mother and Aunt Martha, of the Good Conduct Club and her fear of stepmothers and of Lewis Palmer.

"Did Lewis love you the way you loved him?" Daniel asked gently.

"Perhaps. We never discussed it."

"Why not?"

"It's very difficult to speak of such things."

"More difficult not to speak of them, isn't it?"

When the sun began to slip, they abandoned their perch with a groaning of slats and creaky knees. Una offered Daniel her hand to help him to his feet and kept it the whole walk back to the house.

At the veranda steps, she paused before going in. "I shouldn't have told you about Carl and Shirley," she said. "It wasn't my place."

"They're your brothers," Daniel said carefully. "Doesn't that make them mine, too?"

"You don't disapprove?"

Daniel's face went through a rapid series of minute expressions, settling somewhere between apprehension and confusion. "I don't know, exactly. But I expect you'll have some startling pastoral lesson to impart."

She tried to smile, but her face felt fragile, as if it might split if any seam got started. "Daniel . . . I can't . . . you know I can't leave Carl now."

He nodded, his own smile halting. A blunt finger nudged her hand open and he dropped the gold ring into her palm. "Not right now. To every thing there is a season. You'll tell me when it's ours."

The kiss Una planted on his cheek was soft and fleeting, but it left the affable features flushed pink with pleasure. She smiled the newer smile all the way into the kitchen, where Di and Anthony were bustling about, warming soup and slicing bread. Carl sat at the table in fresh pajamas and an old green cardigan of the Susan brand that hung loose from his shoulders. He looked a bit pale after his walk from the bedroom, but he was sitting upright and feeding Muggins bits of tea cake under the table.

"Daniel," Carl said, looking from one happy face to the other. "I'm so glad you're here. Tea?"

* * *

In the moment between knocking at the front door and hearing a footstep in the hall, Carl nearly retreated from the porch. It had been a long walk to Glen St. Mary and then beyond, down the shore road nearly all the way to the lighthouse, especially for someone still recovering from an overlong stay in bed. But Carl had been up and about for several days before attempting this journey and his legs had outlasted his nerve. Too late to go back now, anyway. He pressed a hand to the pin in his breast pocket just as the door swung inward to reveal Mrs. Blythe, face pale above her mourning black and framed with still-thick hair gone mostly white.

"Carl?" she said, her surprise undisguised.

Carl licked his lips. "Hello, Mrs. Blythe. I came to . . . to . . ."

He tightened his grip on the cigar box he carried. He'd made a plan, but couldn't quite remember it in the event.

"Come inside, Carl."

She took his coat and cap, though he did not offer the box and she did not ask about it. Carl followed her to the sitting room _where a fire of driftwood was weaving flames of wavering, elusive, sea-born hues_. Dr. Blythe had been reading the newspaper — _Dominion Plans to Raise Two More Divisions, Increase Air Defenses for Canada_ — but rose to his feet when Carl entered.

"Won't you sit?" Mrs. Blythe said, gesturing to an armchair. "I'll get us some tea."

"No, no tea, thank you. I won't stay long."

She nodded and sat expectantly on the sofa. Dr. Blythe lowered himself onto the cushion beside her with creaking knees, leaving Carl standing awkwardly before them with the cigar box. Eventually, he took the chair, perching hesitantly on the forward edge.

"Is your head feeling alright?" Dr. Blythe asked by way of a neutral opening.

"Yes, thank you," Carl said. "It never really bothered me much."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Carl had spent the miles between the little gray house and the House of Dreams thinking through what he would say, but now that he was here, all the rehearsed snippets had deserted him. Best stick with simplicity.

"I came to apologize," he said. "I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you both when . . . when I saw you last. I took my feelings out on you when you were only trying to help, and that was wrong. Thank you for coming to see me in person. That was considerate of you."

Dr. Blythe shook his head and began to say that no apology was necessary, but Mrs. Blythe touched his arm and said, "Thank you, Carl. Your apology is accepted. We owe you one as well."

Carl waited long enough that he began to wonder whether this mere mention of a possible apology was supposed to stand in for the real thing, but Mrs. Blythe squared her shoulders and stuck out her pointed chin as if she meant to do something brave.

"I'm very sorry for the way things have been between us all these years," she said. "We only ever meant to help Shirley, but I know that we insulted him terribly. I've been sorry ever since, but I never knew how to make things right between us. I wish I did."

Carl frowned. It was the sort of apology that did not quite understand the grievance, but it was a place to start and he had not come to quarrel.

"Thank you," he said.

"We were very proud of him," Dr. Blythe added. " _He always reminded me of my father._ Sturdy and sensible."

Carl gave a wan smile. "That's true," he said carefully. "But . . . I think you missed out on the best of him."

The Blythes blinked at this, clearly not having expected any reproach.

But Carl had come prepared. He ran one hand over the lid of the cigar box in his lap before opening it to reveal a pile of snapshots.

"I should really put these in an album," he mused. "But I wanted you to see them."

He selected one from Redmond, the two of them grinning in caps and gowns on the morning of commencement, and handed it over to Mrs. Blythe.

"I expect you know that I take bad spells sometimes," he said as she gazed soft-eyed at the photo. "It helps when I have plenty of fresh air and quiet. After Redmond, I wanted to come home to the Glen. Shirley didn't. He wanted to go to a city and never look back, but I just couldn't. He came here because I asked him to. Maybe it wasn't right of me to ask in the first place, knowing that he could never really be happy here. But he stayed for my sake, and you should know that about him."

Mrs. Blythe stared at the photo a long time before she handed it to her husband, but did not reply. That was alright. Carl wanted them to listen.

"He loved Una," Carl said more brightly, coming up with several snaps. "Did you know that he built that blue tricycle she uses? He drew up blueprints and everything, just as if it were one of his airplanes."

Mrs. Blythe smiled at the photo of Una trying her tricycle for the first time and at the one of Shirley adjusting the seat. His attention was focused on the task at hand, but he was smirking as if the person behind the camera had said something amusing.

"He and Una always got along well," Dr. Blythe observed.

"Yes," Carl agreed. "She offered to marry him once — for safety's sake — but it wouldn't have been right."

Should he be gentler with them? No. It was important for them to hear the truth, even if it did make them shift in their seats.

"He loved Muggins, too," Carl said, smiling at a snapshot of a skeptical Shirley restraining the dog in his lap as she attempted to launch herself hat-first into a birthday cake.

"That was my idea," he admitted as he passed the photo to Mrs. Blythe. "I thought Mugsy should have a birthday. Shirley thought it was awfully silly, but he baked that cake for her anyway. A second after this was taken, she was in it up to her ears. Then she shook herself dry and the whole kitchen was covered in frosting."

Mrs. Blythe's eyes sparkled, but she smiled warmly. "That seems like my sort of scrape," she said. "I knew he liked to bake. He helped Susan with Nan's wedding cake."

"Yes," Carl said. "I think he was the only other person who knew the recipe."

There were more photos. Shirley under a palm tree on a beach in Havana, grinning at the camera. The two of them at Nellie Meijer's wedding, Shirley very tan and Carl obviously peeling. Shirley and a twelve-year-old Gil Ford sitting in the cockpit of the old Curtiss in their helmets and goggles.

"I remember them like this," Dr. Blythe said, taking that one from his wife. "I would sit and read the paper and they would go round and round, taking off and landing until Gil could do it on his own."

"Thank you for that," Carl said earnestly. "It meant an awful lot to him, teaching Gil to fly. Thank you for smoothing things over with Ken. And for trusting him."

"Of course," Dr. Blythe said. "I was glad to do it and gladder that he let me."

Carl chuckled softly. "You're lucky it had to do with Gil. If it hadn't been so important, he might have held that grudge forever."

"I suppose he got that from me," Mrs. Blythe admitted. "Though I wish I could have given him something better."

Carl considered her for the space of a slow breath. He had always liked Mrs. Blythe, ever since he was a starved, sickly child who envied other children their mothers. Faith and Jerry called her _Mother Blythe_ and he should have too, all these long years. He had hated her enough to tell her the truth about letters from commanding officers, but he also loved her enough to tell her the truth about other things.

"You did give him something better," Carl said truthfully. "You gave him poetry. He loved _Leaves of Grass_ so much."

Mrs. Blythe met Carl's gaze with wide, starry eyes, and neither looked away.

" _Leaves of Grass_?" Dr. Blythe asked. "That's a book, isn't it?"

Mrs. Blythe squeezed her husband's hand and rose from the sofa. She went to the bookshelf, selecting a well-read volume bound in green and placing it on the coffee table, open to the flyleaf dedication in Shirley's neat, regular hand.

 _December 1916  
_ _Mother,  
_ _I know that you once had a copy of this book, and that you don't anymore. I don't think you knew that I had read it.  
_ _Please take my own copy. I can order another in town. I have marked a page, thinking that it might mean something to you as well.  
_ _Love,  
_ _Shirley_

Carl smiled faintly. "I didn't quite believe it when he told me he'd given you his own copy. That's like Una giving you her own Bible."

"Did it really mean so much to him?" Mrs. Blythe asked.

"Yes. It did. You couldn't have given him anything better if you'd tried. I was thinking . . . if . . . if you are going to put up a plaque . . . in the church . . . might you consider putting a quotation on it?"

Mrs. Blythe did not answer right away, but took the book and riffled the thin leaves until she found a particular underlined passage and handed it back to Carl.

 _To have the feeling to-day or any day I am sufficient as I am._

"Well, I guess you did know him after all," Carl said thickly.

A silence stretched between them and Carl was almost sorry he had refused tea, if only because it would have given them something to do. Instead, they had only one another and the paper remains.

Mrs. Blythe recovered first.

"Carl, _would you like to have this_ book _— to keep?_ " _she asked slowly._

 _"Yes — if you can give it to me,"_ Carl _said dully._

" _Then — you may have it._ "

" _Thank you._ "

"We have something else," Dr. Blythe said, looking to his wife for permission. When she nodded, he went to the table in the corner and found a small box that rattled in his hand.

"Squadron Leader Grayson sent this," he explained. "It's yours if you want it. Some personal effects."

It took Carl two tries, but he stretched out a hand and accepted the box, settling it on top of the Whitman in his lap. Perhaps he shouldn't open it here, in company. But it was already unwrapped; the Blythes had already opened it and seen whatever was inside. Let them watch him see it, too.

The first thing Carl noticed was the silver lighter, slightly tarnished. He clicked it open and summoned a flame. Was it strange that it was still in perfect working order?

"I gave that to him for his last birthday," Carl said. "He smoked too much."

Dr. Blythe nodded agreement and Carl was hit with the absurd thought that in a different version of the world, he and Dr. Blythe might have commiserated over Shirley's stubbornness. Odd thought, that they could have been allies.

Next was the wallet, a sleek rectangle of buff leather. Nothing like Carl's own, which bulged with scraps of receipt paper and odd paper clips and bits of shell. Shirley's looked as if he had merely left it on the dresser for the night. A £5 note, a few coins, the little blue RAF identification booklet. Carl had seen the pink RCAF version, but not this one. He unfolded it and was jolted by a photo he'd never seen before. Must have had that taken in England. _Height: 6'1"; Build: Medium; Colour of eyes: Brown; Colour of hair: Brown._

There was a transparent window in the wallet's interior, displaying a photo of Shirley with the boys and Muggins out at the airfield. It was slightly askew, as if someone had shoved it into the slot in a hurry. Carl poked a finger in to adjust it and found that it did not budge easily. There was something stuck in behind it.

"Here, let me," Dr. Blythe offered, and Carl was glad of the help from a steadier hand.

Dr. Blythe prodded the compartment, flexing the leather and reaching in delicately to grasp whatever was jamming the photo. Another bit of paper, soft with many creases. When it fell into his hand, a younger Carl smiled up at them all from the deck of the _Sweet Flag_.

Well, that about summarized things, didn't it? Still, it was a comfort to know that Shirley had carried it with him always.

Except . . .

No.

Not always.

If he had always carried it, it wouldn't be here at all.

Carl frowned into the box, which wasn't quite empty yet. He drew out a length of parachute cord with two dangling tags, a red circle and a green octagon, both stamped S. J. BLYTHE. He held them in front of his face, brow knitting as he considered them.

"Identity discs?" Dr. Blythe asked. "Why are there two?"

"Why are there any?" Carl said in a daze.

"Sorry?"

"You're supposed to wear them all the time," he said, more to himself than to the Blythes. "If you're killed, someone is supposed to cut the red tag and bring it back. The green one stays with the body."

Mrs. Blythe blanched as she absorbed this tidbit of military procedure, but Dr. Blythe leaned forward over his knees.

"So why are they here?"

Carl felt blank. "I don't know."

"He must not have been wearing them," Dr. Blythe continued. "But why not? If he were flying a mission, he should have been wearing them, shouldn't he?"

"Yes."

Something wasn't right.

The box in Carl's hand was clearly empty, but he swept the interior with his hand and shook it for good measure.

"There's nothing else in the wallet, is there?" he asked Dr. Blythe, who searched the compartments and came up with a few more bits of paper.

"Looks like his civilian pilot's license. A ticket stub. Printed train schedule. That's it."

"No watch?"

Dr. Blythe looked again, emptying the zippered coin pouch and checking for exterior pockets.

"No. No watch."

"No watch . . ." Carl echoed.

"Might someone have taken it?" Mrs. Blythe asked.

"Maybe," Carl said. "It was awfully cheap, though. He always wore it flying. There's no knife either?"

Dr. Blythe shook his head.

No watch. No knife. But tags?

Something definitely wasn't right.

"I wonder . . ." Carl said absently, frowning into the box.

"Wonder what?" Mrs. Blythe said, leaning avidly over her knees.

"Never mind. I couldn't."

Mrs. Blythe extended a hand across the table between them, resting long, slender fingertips on Carl's own. The touch was cool, but electric nonetheless and Carl looked up to find gray eyes soft and imploring.

"I was only wondering," he murmured, "whether I might write to Squadron Leader Grayson and ask about the watch. But I don't suppose I can."

The words had not yet reached the far walls before Mrs. Blythe was up and across the room, settling herself into the pretty little chair at the writing desk and drawing a rustling sheet of black-bordered letter paper toward her.

"Come sit here, Carl," she said, indicating the window seat. By the time he obeyed, she had already written the date and _Dear Squadron Leader Grayson_ across the top of the page. "Will you describe the watch for me?"

Carl cleared his throat, watching neat script blossom under her pen. "It's an Ingersoll Radiolite. Nothing fancy. With a leather band and . . . and our initials engraved on the back. _SJB_ and _TCM_."

If Mrs. Blythe paused, she covered by dipping her pen. In next to no time, the page was complete and she signed her own name at the bottom. She offered it to Carl to read, though his eye slipped over the words in blurred incomprehension. He stared at it too long, handing it back only when Mrs. Blythe touched his sleeve.

"You can mail it on your way home," she said kindly as she rocked her blotter across the bottom of the page and folded the letter into an envelope. "But first, tea?"

* * *

Notes:

* _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 31: "Carl Does Penance" _"Carl rallied and passed the crisis in safety. The news was phoned about the waiting Glen and people found out how much they really loved their minister and his children . . . Carl got better rapidly, for the congregation took enough nourishing things to the manse to furnish forth a hospital."_

** _Rainbow Valley_ , Chapter 28: "A Fast Day"

***Rilla of Ingleside, Chapter 23: "And So, Goodnight" with first-person pronouns

To the recent reviews: I just wanted to say thank you all for engaging in spirited discussion over this story. Sorry I did not weigh in earlier - I was busy navigating my own IRL family over Christmas. But I followed all the comments with interest and vast appreciation for your engagement with this story. Thanks everybody for reading and for caring enough to tell me what you're thinking.

I don't want to over-explain, but I had a few thoughts I wanted to share about some themes that have been important to me in this story.

LMM had a lot to say about grudges in AOGG, so a small part of my purpose here was to dig into that. I flipped Anne's canon grudge and put her on the other side of it (matched with someone who has inherited her stubbornness and keen sense of grievance) not just because it's interesting to mirror a character's own traits back to them, but because it is helpful to me personally to narrativize that stand-off. I made Shirley more Anne's son than was evident in canon, giving him some of his mother's interests and personality traits (poetry, grudge-holding) as well as a big chunk of her storyline (moving to Glen St. Mary to support their husbands, even though that means moving away from their friends and dialing way back on fulfilling careers). I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness this past year and wanted to explore some threads of it with LMM — that you can't demand forgiveness on your own terms, that genuine remorse doesn't undo the initial harm, that a righteous grudge can be both necessary self-protection and an exhausting drag.

The family threads in this story are important to me because there's a wide spectrum of awkwardness between complete estrangement and complete acceptance. I've tried to imagine the characters in this story empathetically and ground their actions in canon, history, and experience, and am more than happy to discuss the choices I've made and answer any questions. Some I feel very solid on (Gilbert's characterization) others I'm still iffy on myself (Does Una really need to have a romantic relationship to be happy?). Others I think you could make an opposite case for — I decided to interpret Susan's love for Shirley as unconditional (even when that was very difficult for her) and as an extension of her canon resolution "to be a heroine," but I can imagine someone making a convincing case for her betraying her vow and breaking both their hearts.

As a final note, on the subject of Anne and Gilbert's views on LGBTQ issues, I do think it is important to note LMM's own views. LMM wrote quite a bit in her journals about gay people (at one point categorically writing "I am not a Lesbian"), and I have let Anne and Gilbert agree with her in some ways. Take, for example, the journal entry from 1930 where LMM had been reading some medical literature about LGBTQ people and wrote, "The subject of sex perverts has been aired sufficiently of late in certain malodorous works of fiction. I had learned of it in the cleaner medium of medical volumes. There was something in it that nauseated me to my very soul center but I did not think of it as anything that would ever touch my life in any way." Or this, about a lesbian fan of hers: "Poor Isobel was a pervert. Not to blame for it, I suppose. Born under a curse as another girl might have been born cross-eyed or mentally deficient. But nevertheless cursed and pariah." Or this from 1932: "yet I suppose inverts [gay people] should be pitied, just as we pity any monstrosities." It isn't about hating on characters; it is about me, as a queer person, navigating my relationship with this author and her works, which are wonderful in many ways, but ableist, racist, and homophobic in others.

Also KatherineWithAC: _Poleaxed!_ LOL - why aren't YOU writing for the fandom? I'd love to read anything you have to say. If you ever want to chat, feel free to PM me. I hope you are well and thriving!


	64. The Rats of Arras

**Happy New Year, everyone! We're maybe 7 or 8 chapters from the end of this.**

* * *

 **The Rats of Arras**

* * *

April 1942

* * *

"What's _that_?" Shirley asked, curling his lip in disgust as Wilkie set an overflowing pail in the kitchenette sink.

"It's a bucket of dead rats."

"I can see that."

"Then why did you ask?"

A month of living in Wilkie Marshall's apartment — of wearing his clothes and eating his rations and sleeping on his sofa — had left Shirley's last nerve frayed to the final gossamer fiber. It wasn't so much that Wilkie was obnoxious; in fact, Wilkie wasn't around very much. An ethereal presence that seemed to consume nothing but alcohol and tobacco, he slept three or four hours a night and went out before dawn, leaving Shirley to his own devices. This mostly involved pushups and listening to the BBC with the volume turned down and coaxing the stove back into working order. Every morning, Shirley placed six of Wilkie's cigarettes in a neat row on the table and smoked them one at a time at three-hour intervals. Then he went back to sleep on the couch and started again in the morning. By the end of the first week, he was quite ready to walk to Spain.

"You said you wanted to help, didn't you?" Wilkie drawled, selecting a particularly fat rat from the top of the pile and taking a sharp knife from the drawer. All the knives were sharp, Shirley having honed them after he had re-organized the cupboard and unclogged the drain in the tub and convinced the radiator to stop shrieking.

"I meant I could work in the bakery," Shirley grimaced as Wilkie slit the rat's belly open from stem to stern. Its entrails slithered into the sink, slimy and stinking.

"Fat chance. The minute you open your mouth, we all get rounded up and taken down to the firing range behind the Citadel."

"I can be quiet," Shirley muttered.

Wilkie squished a lobe of rat liver through his fingers, letting it fall into the basin with a wet _thwack_. "Plenty of nice, quiet work to do right here."

When he had finished gutting the rat, Wilkie rinsed his hands and disappeared into the bedroom, reemerging with a gray brick of putty, a shoebox, and a little tin.

"Thread a needle," he said, tossing the tin to Shirley.

"What for?"

"Jesus, Blythe, were you always this talkative? Thread a needle and I'll show you."

Shirley muttered to himself, but searched the sewing kit for a needle and a card of black thread.

"White would be better," Wilkie corrected. "Same color as the belly."

Shirley considered the rat, its little paws stiff and splayed, its guts strewn across the basin.

 _That he would be safe._

What did that even mean these days? Last week, the BBC had brought news that Dutch shore batteries in Curaçao had successfully repelled a U-boat attack, which only told Shirley that there were U-boats in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Could you see them from the surface when they dove, running like great black sharks beneath the clear waves? They wouldn't get into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, would they? The Navy would be on patrol, and the RCAF boys at Summerside. And U-boats didn't spare a thought for little motor-sailers anyway, did they?

No, it wasn't torpedoes Shirley feared, but the aftershocks of telegrams, one of which had certainly gone clicking west over the wires by now.

 _Please let him be safe._

Wilkie cut a slice of putty from the gray brick and held it in front of Shirley's nose. "I assume you are familiar with plastic explosives?"

"You keep them in your apartment?" Shirley marveled.

This got a laugh from Wilkie. "Right you are! When the Nazis finally burst in here, the first thing they'll notice will definitely be the trick floorboard in the closet."

"How did you get this anyway?"

"Some idiot drops munitions out of the sky every full moon," Wilkie smirked, rolling the putty between his hands. "Like some demonic Father Christmas."

"Well if I'd known you were on the list, I'd have asked the SOE boys to pack you some coal."

Wilkie chuckled at that, continuing to work the explosives until he had an oblong shape as long as his finger and twice as wide.

"No need," he said. "We've got plenty of coal here already. That's where the rats come in."

Shirley raised a brow in inquiry and Wilkie took his time, savoring Shirley's undivided attention.

"Arras is quite famous for its rats," he explained. "Back when the Spanish were the enemy, someone quipped that the French wouldn't retake the city until rats ate cats. They did retake it eventually and have been awfully proud of their rats ever since. The chocolatiers even make little candy rats. When they have chocolate, that is."

"Fascinating," Shirley deadpanned.

"You know what?" Wilkie rounded on Shirley with sudden energy, knife still in his hand. "You're a real piece of work. Have I ever bothered to tell you a story that wasn't going somewhere worthwhile?"

Shirley suppressed a shudder. No. No, he hadn't.

"That's what I thought," Wilkie said with a little jab of his blade. "Anyway, you stick the explosives into the body cavity like _this_. And you stick a fuse in like _this_."

He demonstrated, shoving the lump of putty up against the rat's exposed spine and taking a little metal fuse from the shoebox. He pulled the flayed belly closed around the devise and plucked the needle from Shirley's hand.

"Every Wednesday, a freight train comes through Arras," Wilkie explained. "It's a supply train. Flour for Paris. Coal for factories. Supply trains are always full of rats, see? They go after the food and get into the coal and nobody gives them a second thought. Every coal bin has a dead rat or two in it, and the stokers at the factories just shovel them into the furnaces without thinking twice."

Shirley pictured the scene: a shadowy boiler room lit by a roaring furnace fire, stokers sweating as they heaved shovelfuls of coal, an insignificant dead rat getting swept along with the rest, tossed into the inferno . . .

"So you toss a few exploding rats into the coal car and hope they get shoveled into a furnace . . ." he said slowly, "and if they do, the furnace explodes, and takes the factory offline for however long it takes them to fix it."

"See, I always knew you were more than just a pretty face."

Shirley was impressed at the elegance of the plan. Certainly plastic explosives were hard to come by and it was a wrench to waste any on a low-probability gamut. But on the other hand, the risk to personnel was very low. There was no need to sneak an operative into the factory and the rats were untraceable. The only man who took a risk was the one who tossed the rats into the open coal car as it passed. Well, him and the man with an arsenal in his apartment.

"Won't they get suspicious if their boilers keep exploding?" Shirley asked.

Wilkie finished the last stitch and cut the thread with his knife. "Maybe. But I'd be perfectly happy if they have to waste their time assigning some Nazi to cut open every single dead rat in France on the off chance it might be one of ours."

He dangled the rat by its tail, waiting until Shirley extended his hands to catch it.

"Keep going until you finish off that brick," Wilkie ordered as he washed his hands. "I can always bag a few more rats if you run short of those."

Shirley nodded. Hadn't he said he wanted to do something useful rather than just sitting around? Well, careful what you wish for.

After Wilkie swept out to goodness knew where, Shirley hesitated over the first rat. It was difficult to hold it in his mangled hand, the middle finger all but useless and the others still stiff. He pressed the knife into the pale fur of the animal's throat, but couldn't quite bring himself to break the skin. Had it died of natural causes, he wondered, or had Wilkie clobbered it with a stick and stuffed it into his pail? But this was no time to be precious. With a flare of his nostrils, Shirley shoved the blade into the dead rat and began his work.

*/*/*

 _Shirley's foot came down on something soft and furry. He recoiled and stepped backward, but there was another rat there. It shrieked as Shirley crushed it beneath his boot. The whole floor was rats, a shivering, squeaking carpet of them and there was no way to move without squashing them. Then the ground began to shake and a black fissure opened wider and wider and wider and the rats were running and Shirley was running, but the pit was expanding and rats were falling. There was water down there and something huge and dark emerging from the depths. The rats were squeaking and scurrying and tumbling down and Shirley was only one step ahead . . ._

He woke with a start. Something had clattered to the floor in the study, accompanied by a flurry of cursing. Shirley sat up and pulled on his trousers, watching lamplight flicker under the study door. Wilkie must have come in quietly after he'd gone to sleep, but evidently hadn't gone to bed.

The study door opened under gentle pressure to reveal Wilkie at the desk, head in his hands and shoulders heaving silently. The orange glow of the lamp glistened off the black curls gripped between his fingers and illuminated a detailed map of the city and environs under his elbows. There were notes, too, columns of numbers that looked like handwritten timetables. A mess of papers and books scattered over the floor seemed to be the source of the noise; from the spread, they must have been pushed.

Shirley tapped a knuckle against the doorjamb and Wilkie's head snapped up, eyes red-rimmed and face haggard.

"Everything alright?"

Wilkie sniffed, coughed, and was himself again. "Sorry, Blythe. I must have managed to forget you were out there for half a second."

Shirley blinked, not at the barb, but at the apology.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"It's a map."

"I can see that.

"Then why did you ask?"

Shirley peered at the map, which showed the whole city in exacting detail, down to the outlines of individual buildings. There were markings in several colors and many numbers, which seemed to mark particular locations and sectors.

"Planning an operation?"

"I don't want you getting involved," Wilkie snapped.

Shirley crossed his arms over his undershirt and stared him down, trying to put a name to the emotion in those sharp amber eyes. "Bit late for that, don't you think?"

Wilkie glowered back, taking his time before coming to a decision. When he did, he plastered the old drawl over whatever the other had been.

"We're trying to put together a larger operation, see? The Frogs think maybe they can pull off a direct assault on the headquarters at the Citadel if they can get good enough intel. I've got observers all over the city and now I'm supposed to collate all their notes about patrols and security so I can give a report to the higher-ups. Schedules. Routes. Patterns. It should be easy, but there are so many moving parts and the Huns keep changing things up and I just had a moment of frustration with this blasted map . . ."

Wilkie accelerated as he spoke, not quite able to keep his frustration in check after all. He let a fist fall to the desk, sending a pile of notes fluttering.

"Well," Shirley ventured, "it sounds like you could use a second pair of eyes. If you could only find someone with enough free time to make sense of that mess, your troubles would be at an end."

The raptor eyes narrowed to slits. "Funny, it feels like they're just beginning."

Shirley snorted and stepped around the corner of the desk, leaning over Wilkie's shoulder to get a better look at the map.

"These are guard schedules?" he asked, pointing to the handwritten columns of numbers.

"Yes. And observations of the road patrols. Train times. When they serve breakfast and when they go on parade."

"And what are you supposed to look for?"

"Patterns. Vulnerabilities. Anything helpful."

Shirley studied the map, which had been made by someone who knew his craft. He could see where it might get tricky, though, with elevations penciled in and dashed lines through various sectors. Very useful if you focused on one thing at a time, but overwhelming when it was taken all together.

"Do you mind if I look this over for a while?" Shirley asked. "I can give you a preliminary report in the morning."

Wilkie knuckled an eye. "I'll go over it with you."

"No. You look worse than the dead rats. Go to bed."

"I'll just get a drink . . ."

"That won't help," Shirley said, mustering his best imitation of Susan. "You need sleep and you will go to bed right now and stay there until dawn at the very least."

Wilkie wavered, opening his mouth and closing it again, deciding whether to protest what was clearly an order. He seemed on the point of refusing when Shirley placed his sound hand lightly on Wilkie's shoulder.

"Please," Shirley said. "Let me be useful."

*/*/*

The sun was well up when Wilkie emerged from the bedroom in a red dressing gown, still bleary, but no longer on the verge of collapse.

"What are those?" he asked skeptically.

"Pancakes," Shirley said, setting a plateful on the table.

"I can see that."

"Then why did you ask?"

Wilkie settled into a chair, picking up the edge of one thick, fluffy cake and letting it fall back onto the pile.

"If you produce a bottle of maple syrup, Blythe, I'll know for sure that I'm dead and that this past month has just been a particularly intricate and personalized form of torment."

"No maple syrup, I'm afraid," Shirley admitted. "But there's a little jar of quince jelly. If you'd bring up more ingredients from the bakery, I could come up with something better than this."

"The oven doesn't work," Wilkie protested through a mouthful of pancake.

"I fixed it."

"I thought you were working on the notes."

"I did."

Shirley retrieved the map and his notes from the sofa and slid into the chair across from Wilkie.

"I think I've figured out the guard schedule at the Citadel. The train schedules are trickier with delays and such, but I'll keep working on it. Whoever wrote those descriptions of all the NCOs takes crackerjack notes. I can't really read every word of them, but it should be possible to put names to every watch. That might be useful, knowing the Huns as individuals rather than just uniforms."

"That's the girl's work," Wilkie shrugged, taking a sip of whatever chicory mixture was passing for coffee these days. "Mireille. Max put her behind the counter at the bakery and now she knows every Hun in the city. Everyone love a pretty girl with a pretzel. And she speaks better German than she lets on."

Something sour gurgled in Shirley's gut. "She's just a kid, Wilkie."

Wilkie raised a brow. "She's a partisan. A useful one, too, though I admit I had my doubts at first."

"Don't put her in danger. Please."

"We're all in danger, flyboy."

Hard to argue with that. Still, Shirley didn't like the sort of danger Wilkie might be planning for Mireille. She would just be a tool to him, an asset to be expended for maximum impact at the right moment. Shirley was sorry he'd ever brought her into Wilkie's orbit.

"What's the operation?" Shirley asked, redirecting the conversation away from Mireille. "What do you have to gain by attacking the Citadel?"

"Besides dead Nazis, you mean?"

Shirley frowned. "If that were all, you could do more damage with Sten guns at a dress parade. You said the French wanted the headquarters. Why?"

Wilkie chewed thoughtfully. "Do you really need to know?"

"I guess not."

Wilkie took the last piece of pancake in his fingers and used it to mop dribbles of bright quince from the plate. When he had finished, Shirley got up to clear the dishes, but was only halfway to the kitchenette when Wilkie spoke.

"Records," he said. "There are records in the headquarters. They want to set a fire and destroy whatever they can. The Citadel . . . it's . . . well, it's where the Nazis bring Resistance fighters to execute them. There's a ravine out back. Not just people from Arras; from all over the region. Lens. Béthune. Even Saint-Omer. Miners, mostly, and Communists, but other people, too. Bank directors and professors and insurance agents. Even a baker or two."*

Shirley set the dishes in the sink with a soft chime. "And you think they'll stop if you burn the records?"

"No. But the point isn't to stop them, it's to disrupt as much as possible. Besides, it's not my operation. I'm just eyes on the ground."

"But you'll go with them?" Shirley asked, feeling hollow.

"Probably."

Perhaps Shirley should have wondered what would happen to him if Wilkie went off on such a dangerous — _suicidal_ — mission. But his first thought was for his friend, coolly sipping ersatz coffee at the enamel-top table. It must have shown on his face because Wilkie smirked.

"Oh, don't fuss, Blythe. And don't worry; you'll be long gone before then."

"Will I?" Shirley croaked.

"I had some news yesterday," Wilkie shrugged. "It seems there's an agent over near Abbeville who's got a wireless operator."

Shirley felt a surge of excitement, but tamped it down to match Wilkie's flat affect. "Can they arrange a Lysander pickup?"

"That's the idea. I already sent a request to put you on the schedule for the blue moon on the 30th. He may come to interview you just to make sure, but my word is good around here."

The blue moon. Just a few weeks. He was really going home. To Shirley's eternal frustration in moments like these, he could only muster the simplest words.

"Wilkie, thank you. Truly."

"Gotta get you home to Meredith. I'm sure he's got his knickers in a real twist by now."

A sharp reply sprang to the tip of Shirley's tongue, but he swallowed it. He was grateful and didn't want to pick a fight. Besides, it occurred to Shirley that last night's outburst may not have been without context.

"There's still a war on," he said. "When I get back to England, I'll get back into it. Any requests for supplies? I can't promise anything definite, but if you need something particular for your op, I can ask. Grenades? Tear gas? I'll volunteer for the run myself."

There was a long pause, in which Wilkie drummed his fingers against the table.

"Maybe you should just go home," he replied quietly.

Shirley snorted. "What was that you said about there being work to do?"

Wilkie's cultivated languor tensed instantly and Shirley was bewildered by the piercing hawk's-gaze, turned aggressive and brittle in the space of a breath.

"Don't say that," he fairly spat. Then, wrestling for control of himself: "When you get back, show them your hand and ask for a desk job. Go on home to Canada."

"I can fly with half a hand," Shirley protested.

"I'm sure you can," Wilkie conceded. "But do me a favor. Don't."

* * *

Notes:

*If you are ever in Arras, you can visit the memorial to the 218 Resistance fighters executed in the ravine behind the Citadel between 1941 and 1944. You follow a little inlaid path down the ravine between rows of memorial plaques, which list the dead by name, birth & death dates, town, occupation, and affiliation (many were PCF miners). As you go, you get closer and closer to the place where it makes a ninety degree turn. Around the corner, there is a bare execution post at the end of the path. The attack on the Arras Headquarters in the spring of 1942 did not stop the executions; if anything, the memorial plaques seem to indicate that the executions accelerated in May-October 1942.


	65. The Manse Girls Clean House

**The Manse Girls Clean House**

* * *

 **April 1942**

* * *

On the second Sunday after Easter, Una carried a basket of damp bedding down the back slope of Ingleside, carefully side-stepping the famous daffodils. Faith was already pinning a load of towels to the line, the white cotton billowing in counterpoint to her black skirt. She seemed blithely unbothered by the calendar, just as she had been on that long-ago Sunday when they had scandalized the Glen by doing housework on the Sabbath. But that had been another world, and besides, birthing laundry couldn't exactly wait for washday.

"Let me help you with that," Faith said as Una extracted the first sheet.

"You should go rest," Una replied. "You were up all night."

Faith yawned into the crook of her elbow, but did not stop unfurling the bedding. "I just want to get this lot drying first. Then I'll go check on Zoe."

"I looked in on her before I came down," Una said. "She and the baby are both asleep."

Faith nodded her satisfaction through another yawn.

"Zoe didn't want to go to the hospital in Town?" Una asked, securing the sheet with a clothespin.

Faith shook her head. "We offered to bring her in case she'd feel more comfortable with another doctor. But I think . . . I think she might have been hoping that her mother would show up at the last minute. Jem did call over to Lowbridge, but . . ."

There was small cracking sound and Faith's end of the sheet slipped to the ground.

"Blast!" Faith muttered, jumping to lift the fallen cloth and shoving the broken clothespin into her apron pocket.

"Her parents haven't spoken to her at all?" Una asked cautiously.

"No," Faith huffed. "Her sisters passed letters to Ceci at school and I know they wanted to be here for her, but I don't suppose they can go against their parents' wishes. That helped a little, to know that her sisters are thinking of her. But still . . ."

Faith made the next sheet suffer for the sins of the absent Maylocks. It clung to the other damp laundry in the basket, tangling as Faith yanked on it to punctuate her vexation.

"I just get so _angry_ with them I could _scream_. Zoe's _here_. She's right _here_ and she's _calling_ for them and they're just _choosing_ not to be with her . . ."

Faith threw the twisted sheet down in frustration, gulping back a sob. She did not let herself cry freely until Una had her in her arms.

"She's . . . _right_ . . . _here_ ," Faith choked through her tears. "She . . . needs . . . her . . . mother."

Una held on tight, letting her sister pour out her grief for her own lost child. It was all so desperately unfair.

When the sobbing had subsided, Faith blew her nose on Una's black-bordered handkerchief and forced a smile. "Zoe did so well, Una. You should have seen her. I was so proud."

"You should tell her that," Una said, stroking her sister's back.

That brought a chuckle. "I did! She'll never be in any doubt that we love her."

"I'm sorry about her parents."

Faith turned back to the laundry, taking up the cast-off sheet and shaking it vigorously until it unfurled. "Oh, I've cursed every hair on their miserable heads and then made them wigs and done it twice. But I suppose it doesn't do much good. I'd say I'd be tickled if the earth would open up and swallow them, but I know Zoe still hopes they'll come around someday."

"If there's anything I can do to help . . ."

A _no_ began to form on Faith's lips, but she caught it before it was half-realized. "Perhaps . . ." she began, then stopped again. "Say, Una, the Maylocks go to your church, don't they?"

"Yes."

"Well . . . Father has offered to baptize the baby. It would have to be a private ceremony, probably just here at the house. Some old cats in the congregation think it's scandalous to make a public fuss over an illegitimate child and I'm afraid the presbytery tends to agree. But Zoe's an Episcopalian and I think they are perhaps not quite as stingy?"

Una nodded. "I know that St. Elizabeth's has welcomed unmarried mothers before. Quiet ceremonies, but not hidden."

The excitement of the idea sparkled through Faith's residual tears.

"I'll have to ask Zoe what she wants," she said. "But I'm certain that Father Daniel would preside if she wanted him to. And perhaps . . . do you think there's any chance he might speak to the Maylocks? Persuade them to attend? Or at least to let Zoe's sisters go? He'd do it, wouldn't he, if _you_ asked him?"

"He'd do it for anyone," Una said staunchly, her attention apparently focused on an uncooperative clothespin.

Faith laughed. "Oh, _indeed_. How could I be so silly as to think that you have any particular influence over him?"

The clothespin skittered out of Una's hand, dropping to the ground. When she looked up again, Faith had fixed her with a weather eye, all trace of exhaustion vanished.

"Una Meredith," she said, arms folded across her apron. "You've gone pink as a peony. Has something happened between you and Daniel?"

Una had not meant to say. She only wanted to help with the laundry. These past few months, between Wally and the funeral and Carl and telegrams and the new baby, there had just never been a time when it seemed right to draw attention to herself.

"He wants to marry me," she whispered.

"Well _of course_ he does. You don't mean to say you've refused him?"

"Not exactly."

Faith put a hand on her hip and deployed her best mothering voice: "Una. You just sit right down and tell me everything that's happened, beginning to end, and don't leave out a single word. The sheets will keep."

Una obeyed, sinking to the grass and plucking at it rather than looking Faith in the eye. She told the bits Faith already knew —of their work together in the community and the garden and their lessons— and the bits she did not know - the kisses in the chill February morning, the talk of logistics, the gold ring she carried in her pocket.

Faith wrinkled her nose. "Well you certainly can't marry him with Louisa's ring, can you? As soon as the baptism is over, we'll go straight to Town and have a new one made."

"I don't think I can marry him, Faith."

"Rubbish."

"No, please. It isn't that I don't want to. But I have obligations."

"Obligations? What sort?"

Una tore a blade of grass into tiny bits. "To the parish, of course. And to Carl."

"You don't mean to say that Carl disapproves?" Faith said, honey-brown brows flying upward.

"No, of course not. But he isn't well. I can't leave him."

Faith reached out and put a hand over her sister's, stilling the busy fingers. "Una. Do you want to marry Daniel?"

A nod would have to suffice, words being impossible at the moment.

"Then Carl will manage," Faith said unconcernedly. "He's perfectly capable. And if he doesn't fancy cooking for himself, he and Mugsy are welcome here at Ingleside. The more the merrier and I expect Ceci would enjoy the culinary challenge."

Still, Una did not look up. She'd been over all this before, with Carl and with Daniel and with herself, over and over, but there were some things you could only say to a sister.

"I'm scared, Faith," she squeaked.

"Scared?"

Una raised wide blue eyes and tried to speak with them, willing Faith to understand . . .

"Oh! Oh, Una!" A giggle bubbled up to Faith's lips, though she swallowed it before it overflowed. "There's no need to be scared of _that_. Daniel hardly seems the type to pressure you."

"I'm too old to have a baby," Una said dismally, "but I expect . . . if we were married . . . we would still . . ."

"I daresay you _would_ ," Faith said, then pausing at sight of Una's frown: "What's wrong, honey? Do you think you won't like it?"

Una remembered the kiss on the veranda, the way her skin had seemed to vibrate all day afterward, and the other kisses in the kitchen, broad hands warm on her hips.

"I think I will," she said, blushing furiously. "But I don't know the first thing about it."

"Oh, I expect you know the first thing," Faith said comfortably. "Listen, if you don't want to be intimate, you don't have to be, and that's something you'll just have to decide for yourself. But if you _want_ to be and are only scared because you don't know what you're doing, that's easily fixed."

"Really?"

"Really. I think you'll find that experience is the best teacher, but in the meantime I can assign you some reading. That is, if you have some time in your schedule now that deaconess classes are on hold?"

Una trembled at whatever Faith might mean by "reading," but she didn't have much time to ponder the mystery. In a flash, they were up and moving across the lawn, Faith's hand warm and reassuring around her own, pulling her toward the house. Through the kitchen, into the hall and the library beyond, where Faith ignored the shelf of ledgers and rows of jars to rummage among the books in the case near the window. She selected one, considered it, and tossed it on the desk, but kept looking until she found a slimmer volume. She placed both in Una's uncertain hands.

"You'll want to start with this one," Faith said decidedly, opening the smaller book to its title page: _Married Love_ by Marie Stopes. "It's very . . . _gentle_ ," she said, though her tone did not indicate whether she considered that to be an asset or a shortcoming. "And if that goes alright, you can have a look at this . . ."

Faith tapped the title page of the larger book — _Ideal Marriage: It's Physiology and Technique_ — with a badly concealed smirk. "You'll have questions. And when you do, you come to me and we'll have a cup of tea."

Una stammered what she hoped was a word of thanks, checking to make sure that the titles were not embossed on the covers. Faith took a step toward the door, then hesitated, looked Una up and down, and changed her mind. Instead of leaving, she pawed among the jars and bottles on the pharmacological shelf until she came up with a little round tin of Vaseline and added it to Una's stack.

Una frowned at it, but Faith merely shrugged.

"You'll work it out."

This seemed unlikely to Una, but she resolved to place trust in her sister's vastly superior experience. Her cheeks might be tingling, but she could not deny that she was awfully curious to see what Marie Stopes had to say. Though mightn't marriage manuals be like _To Make a Home_ with its bewildering rules and orders that never came near the essence of the thing? Well, perhaps that was what the offer of tea was for.

Una followed Faith out into the hall, meaning to get her coat, but stopped at the living room threshold beside her sister. A soft, indistinct murmur resolved into Jem's voice in its most gentle register. Una peered past Faith's shoulder to the sofa, where Jem sat cradling his grandson and speaking in an unbroken patter that might have a song or a prayer but sounded suspiciously medical. It was difficult to balance the books and the tin in one arm, freeing the other to circle Faith's waist, but Una managed.

* * *

 _8 April 1942_

 _Lowbridge, PEI_

 _Dear Gil,_

 _I hope you are well. Thank you for your last letter and for keeping me informed of how you fare. I am sending along a packet of penny candy, knowing it is hard to come by, and a couple of old snapshots I found recently while going through some of Shirley's papers. There is one of you and Mugsy at Christmas when she was just a pup — that must have been the day you named her. Did your uncle ever tell you how much he liked the name? It was a great joke to him, especially since the dog in your Flying Aces story survived a crash by jumping from the plane. Did he ever tell you about his DFC and how he jumped out of his machine just before it crashed? No, I suppose he wouldn't have. But the medal's probably in a drawer somewhere and I'll save it for you if I find it._

 _I've also requested a copy of Shirley's will from the bank. The estate will not be settled for some time, given the uncertainty of his status. But I thought you should know that he left you the Piper Cub. I'll keep it for you, and the rest of the planes as well. When you come home, you can decide what to do with them._

 _I wonder if you might give me some advice now. I was down at your grandparents' house for supper, and your grandmother had a letter from Shirley's commanding officer in reply to an inquiry she made regarding some of his personal effects. It was mostly just apologies that he could not comment on standard operating procedures, but there was something squirrelly about it. Like he was writing but trying not to say anything at all. We all puzzled over it together and I wondered whether you could tell me — when you fly a mission, what sort of identification do you keep on you? Do you leave all your personal effects behind, or are you allowed to bring some along? It probably doesn't really matter, but I have been wondering about it._

 _Love,_  
 _Uncle Carl_

 _P.S. The tin of toffee is from your grandmother. I mentioned that I was making up a parcel for you and she insisted that I include some. Grandad sends his love and the chewing gum._

* * *

 _20 April 1942_

 _Somewhere in England_

 _Dear Uncle Carl,_

 _You keep those planes right where they are. Uncle Shirley will want them when he comes home._

 _As for identification, I scratched my head over that for a while. I have my identification discs, of course, and my RCAF identity booklet. We must keep that on us at all times, even when flying. That way, if we are captured or land in enemy territory for some reason, we can prove that we are officers and airmen. We have a duty to evade, of course, and come back to England if we possibly can. As for personal effects, we can't be too cluttered, but plenty of the fellows wear rings or religious medals and the like. We all have our watches, of course. I leave my wallet behind, but I do have a flask I keep in my boot as a talisman. I'd appreciate if you didn't tell Granny that, though._

 _Is that helpful? Why do you want to know?_

 _Last week, we had a real surprise that I thought you might like to hear about. There was a chap in the squadron that shares our recreation hall who went missing as a result of air operations back around the end of February who turned up last week alive and kicking. I bought him a drink down at the pub and he told me that he had to hike across the Pyrenees to get to Spain. He said there were four airmen in his party, and one of them had been in France since before Christmas. All of them had gotten help on the ground from French civilians. So you just remember that._

 _Thanks for the candy, though Rose stole all the lemon drops. Tell Granny the toffee was aces and Grandad that I'm chewing the gum right now. Thanks especially for the snapshots. I don't think I had ever seen that one of me and Sam and Wally with Uncle Shirley and Muggins and the old Curtiss before. I'm awfully glad to have it._

 _Love,_  
 _Gil_

* * *

 _30 April 1942_

 _Lowbridge, PEI_

 _Dear Gil,_

 _Are you alright? I went over to your grandparents' to share your letter and they were very upset, having just received a call from your parents that you were "slightly injured" in a landing yesterday and have been admitted to the hospital. Apparently, it was one of those "letter to follow" telegrams, but they have no more information and won't rest easy until they hear from you directly._

 _I hope that you will have written all of them long before you even receive this letter, telling everyone that you are well. In the meantime, know that I am praying for you. I was "slightly wounded" once upon a time — you'll have noticed the eyepatch. Besides, I have had enough dealings with the RAF to know that they don't send a telegram for every insignificant bumpy landing, though I would never say as much to your family._

 _I am sending along another package, knowing that hospitals can be very dull places and hoping that you are quite well enough to be in need of entertainment. Do you like Canadian Geographic? If you do, say the word and I will send more of my own issues. This one is from March and has a very interesting article about the Canadian aircraft industry._

 _All my love and best wishes for your speedy recovery,_  
 _Uncle Carl_


	66. Blue Moon

**Blue Moon**

* * *

 **April 1942**

* * *

The agent from Abbeville was an affable, bilingual Frenchman named Marcel who looked as if he had once been pleasantly plump. Well, rations were rather short all around.

Shirley had anticipated his visit with some dread, not knowing how he might be asked to prove his identity. Wilkie's word was good for a lot, but if he couldn't satisfy Marcel, he'd be stuck. Or worse. The resistance couldn't afford to let potential infiltrators go free, not after they'd learned names and plans and the locations of safehouses. Shirley spent the days before the interview scrubbing Wilkie's floor until even Susan would have told him to give it a rest.

He need not have bothered. As it happened, Marcel was an old stunt pilot who had married an English girl after the last war and had presented himself to the RAF as a volunteer when de Gaulle called on his countrymen to keep the flame of resistance burning bright. He had done a week of field-selection training at Newmarket before being flown home to France by Lysander last spring, when Shirley was still at Camp Borden. Marcel had gotten to know some of the men in the Special Duties squadron and most of the interview consisted of questions about Squadron Leader Grayson and the layout of the officer's mess.

"Ah yes," Marcel said. "I remember very well the big window in the mess hall that looks out over the stables."

"I believe you are mistaken," Shirley said carefully. "The window in the mess looks out over the runway."

Marcel grinned. "So it does, my friend. I liked to watch the planes land while I drank my coffee."

Shirley felt his tension ebb. The conversation had included enough specific details that he was sure the only two ways out of it were in a Lizzie or a coffin. Though, on second thought, they probably wouldn't have wasted the coffin.

"One more question," Marcel said. "I sent a message to SOE asking whether Grayson might supply a final security question for me to ask you. He says to ask what initials were engraved on Blythe's watch, though how he remembers that himself I can't imagine."

Shirley couldn't either. But he answered. "Mine. _SJB_. And also _TCM_."

Marcel extended a hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Squadron Leader Blythe. I'll send the final details of the pickup to Mr. Marshall in time for the blue moon."

* * *

On the morning before the blue moon, Wilkie went out as usual, but soon returned with a little paper sack that yielded two small rolls still warm from Max's oven.

"That smells almost real," Shirley said when he emerged from the shower to find Wilkie pouring coffee.

"It is. At least half."

Shirley accepted the half-coffee and contemplated the rolls, wondering whether this was Wilkie's way of celebrating his departure. He looked up to find amber eyes staring at him across the table.

"Aren't you going out today?" he asked, mouth half full.

"No. I put on a show of hacking and sneezing in front of Max until he kicked me out of his kitchen. No one will wonder if I stay in bed all day."

Shirley passed a cool look over his cup, but Wilkie's attention was on the crumbs he was picking from his bread.

"We'll listen for the codeword on the BBC at noon," Wilkie said. "If it's repeated at 19:00, that means the weather is clear and the operation is a go."

"What's the word?"

" _Caterpillars_."

"Marcel's got a field picked out?"

"Yes. Down near Bapaume."

A crumb stuck in Shirley's throat. "Bapaume?" he coughed.

"Yep."

"That's pretty far to walk, isn't it?"

"We're cycling," Wilkie said. "The tricky bit is getting you out of the city, but the patrols are fairly predictable. There are bicycles stashed in the underbrush about half a mile out of town."

"Isn't it dangerous to be on the road close to curfew?"

Wilkie's cup clicked emphatically onto the table. "We can walk across fields if you prefer, Blythe. Some nice springtime Somme mud for old time's sake? But you weren't at Courcelette, were you?"

Shirley bristled at his tone. Why was Wilkie antagonizing him? They had one more day and then they'd never see one another again; why leave on a sour note? But he couldn't help himself.

"When you were at Courcelette, I was seventeen and counting every day until I could enlist," he said flatly. "My brother's still out there under the mud somewhere."

Wilkie's jaw moved, but he didn't say anything snappish, which Shirley recognized for the monumental effort it was. Instead, Wilkie finished off his coffee and left the dishes.

"I'm going to take a nap," he said, breezing toward the bedroom door. "Wake me before noon, won't you?"

*/*/*

At quarter to twelve, Shirley crept to the bedroom door and pushed it open. He'd lived in this apartment nearly two months and never crossed that particular threshold, not even to put away clean laundry. Now, he crept to the bed where Wilkie lay sprawled on his back under twisted sheets.

There hadn't been many times when Shirley had been able to look at Wilkie's face as much as he wanted. It was best not to give him the attention. But Shirley was leaving tonight, and he took a moment to study the long, straight nose, the whorls of ears and curls, the mouth that was softer in repose. He'd never see him again, that much was plain.

Did Shirley make a sound? He must have, because suddenly he was looking into honey-brown eyes not yet focused into hardness.

He took a step back.

"It's . . . uh . . . it's almost noon."

Wilkie rubbed a palm into his eye and sat up. When he did, the blanket fell away and Shirley sucked in his breath.

There was a scar down Wilkie's right side. Not a scrape or a slash, but a gnarled, knotted pucker that began at the bottom of his ribs and ran down the length of his abdomen before disappearing into the waistband at his hip. Shirley looked away, but too late.

Wilkie looked down at his own body as if he had quite forgotten there was anything to see.

"What, this?" he asked, slapping his side heartily. "Old news, Blythe. It was a whole lot nastier back when it was fresh. Scared off poor old Anthony Marckworth in Redmond days, if I recall correctly."

"Looks like you had a close shave," Shirley said faintly.

"Well, I'm not in any doubt as to what color my guts are."

Shirley nodded and bit his lip. He had heard bits about Wilkie's first war, mostly from sly asides or rumors, but hadn't realized he'd been so badly wounded. He must have come very close to death, endured multiple surgeries, spent months or years in a hospital . . .

" . . . at Hill 70," Wilkie was saying, dragging on his undershirt. "Spent the rest of the war wearing convalescent blues in Blighty. Very dull."

"Noon," Shirley breathed. "The radio . . ."

"I'll be out in a minute."

Shirley retreated, pulling the door shut between them, though it was a flimsy barrier. He leaned against it, catching his breath. Only a few hours left.

*/*/*

He had the radio swaddled and ready when Wilkie shuffled into the living room still blinking away sleep. They sat either side of the set on the sofa like doting parents, leaning close to catch its string of nonsense.

 _"_ _This is the BBC. The time is noon._ _Five bells ring at St. Andrew's . . . Mathilde enjoys brussels sprouts . . . That's a mighty fine cognac . . . Paul wants to be an accountant . . . Caterpillars will ruin your rosebushes . . ._ "

"That's us," Wilkie said, clicking off the set and leaning back into the cushions.

"Now we wait?"

"Now we wait."

In the silence, Shirley noticed a slow drip from the faucet. Maybe he should have a look at that before he went. The radiator rattled, but did not shriek thanks to his earlier attentions. There was a crack in the ceiling plaster. Had it gotten bigger since he had arrived? Were they going to sit in silence on this sofa for the next 419 minutes?

"Tell me about Berlin," Shirley said cautiously. "Was it everything you hoped it would be?"

Wilkie looked across the sofa, surprised but not hostile. A slow smile unfurled across his face. "Better. At least the first few years. I wish you could have seen it, Blythe. Made our little shindigs in Kingsport seem like church picnics."

"I kept all your postcards," Shirley confessed. "Thanks for sending them. It was good to know . . . well, good to know that you were living out in the sunshine."

"Sunshine? I don't think I got out of bed before supper for a couple of years there."

"Metaphorically."

"I wanted you to follow me."

"I wanted to. Sometimes."

Wilkie chuckled, but it wasn't a derisive sound. _Rueful_ , maybe?

"I just couldn't understand why you stayed on that Island when you had a chance to leave. But I was young and stupid."

Shirley prodded to see whether that was the invitation he hoped it was. "You stayed in Berlin? Even with the Depression and the Nazis and all?"

"I did," Wilkie admitted. "I traveled a lot, but yes, Berlin was still home."

"You said . . . you stayed for someone?"

"For Leo."

His voice was as quiet as the radio had been, but not hesitant.

Shirley leaned his head back against the wall. "Can you tell me about him?"

"I hardly know where to begin."

"How 'bout the beginning. How did you meet?"

Wilkie grinned again, not a smirk, but a toothy smile that split his face wide open. "At a Communist political meeting in a bar."

Shirley snorted skeptically. " _You_ were at a Communist political meeting?

" _I_ was trying to pick up the bartender."

"Oh, well, that's more like it."

There was a twinkle in Wilkie's eye, so foreign and so genuine that Shirley felt he was meeting the man for the first time. He settled in to enjoy the story.

"There was a bar where the university kids who were sympathetic to the KPD liked to meet up and shoot the breeze, see? I didn't go there very often — young Communists are awful bores — but the bartender was certainly a sight to behold. He had these arms like . . . well, he turned out to be a bore as well, and I was just about to leave when Leo came up to the bar to get a round of drinks for his friends. He was so damn cute. I made a pass; he called me a capitalist swine and threw a drink in my face."

Shirley chuckled. "So it was love at first sight?"

Wilkie beamed. "It certainly was for me. I started to show up when they did, picking up the lingo and playing devil's advocate. Every week, they'd have their meet-up and I'd be right there until I was just one of the regulars."

"So you're a stalker?"

"I'm persistent."

"I'm aware."

"It's charming."

"It's creepy."

"I loved to watch Leo argue," Wilkie said, unchastened. "Sometimes I'd argue a point just to rile him up. He was so passionate about things that he made you want to care about them, too. And the insults! He cursed me out in languages I didn't even understand. Raked me up and down for the sins of every industrialist and financier he'd ever imagined and wouldn't hear anything I might say in my own defense. So I had no choice but to go along and agree with him in the end."

Shirley was having a difficult time suppressing his own grin. "Do you mean to tell me that you, William Kenilworth Marshall of the banking Marshalls, actually turned Red?"

"Oh, yes," Wilkie said airily. "Maybe not dyed in the wool, but definitely made over in the new fashion. I think I mentioned the coal mine, didn't I?"

"You did, oh Capitalist."

"Well, one day, Leo was raging at me over owning it — though he didn't much object to living in the apartment it paid for, I noticed — and I got mad and signed it over to him right then and there. Let _him_ work out what to do with it. He had this idea about setting up a sort of collective where . . ."

"Wait wait wait," Shirley protested, waving as he chuckled. "I think I missed the part where he moved into your apartment."

"Right. Well, he didn't think much of me at first, that's for sure. But I like a challenge. I won his friends over easily enough; even Communists are appreciative when you buy the rounds week after week. I just kept on going to those meetings until one day Leo followed me out afterward and asked whether I was ever going to ask him on a proper date or just keep annoying him forever."

"I assume you obliged."

Wilkie grinned. "I only ever needed a chance. Dinner turned into dancing and dancing ended up back at my place and then he just never really left."

He lapsed into silence, revisiting memories he chose not to share. Good ones, from the look of it.

"So that's why you stayed in Berlin?" Shirley asked cautiously. "Leo wanted to?"

Wilkie nodded. "I tried to get him to leave. At first . . . well it didn't seem too bad early on. Sure, the Nazis were nuts, but they just seemed like buffoons. Then there were some street fights, and then things started getting really bad. Pretty soon, they were arresting Communists left and right. Sometimes it seemed like every week someone we knew would disappear. I can't tell you how many times I tried to convince Leo to leave, but he wanted to stay and resist. You've gotta believe me, I really tried. And he'd just kiss me and say, _Wir haben noch viel zu tun._ We've got lots to do."

Suddenly, Wilkie was off the couch and pacing as if the phrase had propelled him into motion. He cracked his knuckles as he spoke.

"I did get his family out," Wilkie muttered. "He let me do that, at least, when things went south. Canada's certainly not keen on accepting any Jews, I tell you that. But I was able to get them set them up with a flat in London and enough to live on for a while. They're there now — his mother and sister and his little brothers. God, it's been years — they must be grown up by now. I thought maybe if they were already there, I could eventually convince Leo to get out too."

"But he wouldn't go?"

"No. He stayed. Even when so many people were disappearing. We had an artist friend who ran an underground press; Leo helped make anti-fascist leaflets and stick them up all over the city at night. They forged papers, too. That sort of thing."

"What did _you_ do?" Shirley asked.

Wilkie stopped by the window and stared at the blackout curtains as if he could see through them. "I helped," he said dismally. "I had always traveled a lot and I could still do that as a businessman. I smuggled in literature and supplies for the press. But later . . . well, they got more ambitious, see? They started talking about munitions. I could purchase explosives for the mine, but it took a while to set it all up. I was working on it here in '36 when I got a telegram saying that Leo had been arrested."

Shirley did not ask. If Wilkie wanted to tell, he would.

"I suppose it was stupid of me to go back at all," Wilkie said with a shudder. "But I had to look for him. I tried _everything_. Bribes. Threats. All I ever found out was that they convicted him of conspiracy and sent him to a camp. I tried to find out which one, but by then they were watching me and wouldn't tell me anything. You've got to believe me; I tried _everything_ . . ."

"I believe you," Shirley said sincerely.

"I should have stayed longer . . . tried more . . . done _something_ . . ."

There was something awful about the pleading. Shirley had no doubt whatsoever that Wilkie had used every resource of wit and wealth at his disposal. But he was only one person, and what could any one person do?

 _Christ you're arrogant. The next Billy Bishop right here._

"It's not your fault, Wilkie," Shirley said, rising from the sofa.

"I should never have let him stay. I should have knocked him over the head and kept him tied up until we landed safe in Dover."

Shirley offered half a smile. "Well, I haven't met him yet, but I doubt Leo would have thanked you much for that."

"No," Wilkie conceded. "He wouldn't. But I've got to tell you, Blythe, I'd rather have him safe than happy."

"Would you?" Shirley asked, frowning. "That's quite a first."

"What is?"

"You sound just like Carl."

Willkie's lips twisted in grudging acknowledgement. "I know just how he feels."

"Do you?"

"Why do you think I'm hustling so hard to get you home?"

*/*/*

Everything was prepared by 18:55. Sweaters on, boots laced, ready to go at the word. Wilkie had given Shirley a pair of his own gloves as a going away present, leather lined with cashmere and padded in the missing fingers. They fit perfectly because of course they did.

Shirley pressed his toes hard into the floor to keep his legs from jangling. He would have asked for a cigarette, but it seemed churlish to take anything else when he'd be back in England in a matter of hours and Wilkie would still be here, dodging disaster. The dark head bent low over the radio as Wilkie made minute adjustments to the dials and Shirley had a sudden, mad urge to reach out and touch. Not that he could feel anything through the gloves. The middle finger still hurt if he clenched hard enough, so he did.

" _This is the BBC. The time is seven o'clock._ _Five bells ring at St. Andrew's . . . Mathilde enjoys brussels sprouts . . . That's a mighty fine cognac . . . Paul wants to be an accountant . . . I like the pink tulips best . . . Father's birthday is on Thursday . . ._ "

Shirley gaped. It wasn't there. No _caterpillars_. No confirmation. The mission was off.

He should have been disappointed. Angry, perhaps. But the emotion that swamped him was as strong as it was bewildering. _Relief_.

No matter; Wilkie was angry enough for the both of them.

Red-faced and breathing through his teeth, Wilkie rose without a word, went to the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Shirley gawping as the first raindrops pattered against the windows.

*/*/*

Deep in the night, Shirley lay awake on the sofa, listening to the rain and to his own breath and to the unmistakeable sounds of restless tossing coming from the bedroom. There had been a faint glow earlier, but Shirley had stuffed the watch inside a sock and shoved it under the cushions where he couldn't see it anymore. He needed to think.

 _Relief?_

How could that be? All these months, he'd wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of France, hadn't he?

 _Perhaps._

But did he really mean to leave like that? Just walk out of Wilkie's apartment without a word of comfort or thanks? To part forever — and it would be forever this time — without ever telling Wilkie how he had felt . . . how he _did_ feel . . .

 _Shit._

The lack of caterpillars was a reprieve, nothing more. The Lizzies could fly on the night after a full moon if need be, and they would try again tomorrow, wouldn't they?

No. Rain lashed the windows beyond the blackout curtains. Even if it stopped soon, every field for miles would be deep, thick, Lizzie-bogging mud for a week at least. There would be no rescue. Not tonight; not tomorrow. Not from France; not from this decision.

If it hadn't rained, he would be gone already. Back to the bird-stuffed manor house and long weeks of leave and plenty of food and not a Nazi in sight. He would be gone and Wilkie would still be here in an empty apartment, alone with his dead. It wasn't right.

Shirley lay still in the rain-noisy night and wondered whether perhaps he really was heartless. He loved Carl. Always had. Loved him and had promised him many things, including that he would always choose to come home. All the logic of his upbringing had reinforced the lesson that a love like that came with iron-clad responsibilities: unfailing devotion, selfless sacrifice, eternal fidelity. Shirley may have abandoned the moral canon of his native universe in every other way, but that bit had stuck.

 _. . . the whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd . . ._

No. Stop that. A line of poetry isn't a convincing argument.

Perhaps not, but math wasn't much help either. It was supposed to be simple, weighing benefits and harms, but it never was — not when it was important. Whatever he did, Shirley would hurt someone he loved — shit, _loved_ — and have to live with his own conscience thereafter. He only got to choose whether it would damn him for a traitor or a miser.

It would be so easy to do nothing at all, to lie here quietly and count the seconds til dawn, waiting for the rain to stop and the fields to dry so that he could go home above reproach. He'd leave and stay silent and Wilkie would never, ever know how he felt.

 _Never?_ That couldn't be right.

Shirley sat up in a panic, terror dropping through his belly, expanding in every direction like the empty space of eternity.

 _Never?_

He could turn it over and over in his mind forever, but no logic could match that elemental bolt of clarity.

Groping in the end table drawer, Shirley came up with a match. It flared hot and bright, settling into a gentler circle of wavering light when he touched it to the candlewick. Covers off, bare feet on the floor not shaking now, and it was only two steps to the bedroom door. In the last heartbeat before he touched the knob, it occurred to Shirley that Wilkie might not want him anymore, and he felt a single sliver of the heartbreak he had inflicted all those years ago when he had said _no_. Damn, it had been brave of Wilkie to ask like that.

Shirley didn't knock. He only pushed the door open and stood with his candle, knowing that Wilkie wasn't asleep. He didn't even pretend to be. He sat up, just as he had this morning, the scar less notable than the tracks on his face. Perhaps it was only the candlelight that made his eyes softer than Shirley had ever seen them, but he didn't think so.

Shirley moved deliberately.

Set the candle on the dresser.

Turned to face the bed.

He said nothing, only stood motionless in that unbroken gaze until it blinked and cracked all the way open. Then he met Wilkie halfway, the first searing touch of lips catching and blazing along every extremity. He melted into the kiss, into the embrace, into the bed. If Shirley had remembered anything of the world beyond their smelted skin, he would have been glad of the dulling rain because the whole point was to show someone how you felt about them, and there was no way of doing that quietly, even if neither of them spoke. Finding the tip of the scar that began below Wilkie's ribs, Shirley delivered one long-dwelling kiss and then another slightly lower, and another and again, seeking its root with the lips of a determin'd man.

*/*/*

"Do you want a cigarette?"

"Thanks."

"You know, somewhere a twenty-five-year-old version of me is absolutely roaring."

"I like this version a lot better."

"Really?"

"There's a real person under all that bullshit after all. Who knew?"

"Ah, well, I suppose you can thank Leo for that."

"Maybe I'll get the chance someday."

"No. He's dead, Shirley."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"A few months ago, I would have said you were dead. And I'll bet Carl thinks I'm dead right now. But you aren't and I'm not and maybe Leo isn't either."

"Pffft. Whatever happened to your alleged pragmatism?"

"Life's a whole lot longer and stranger than I expected it to be."

"Maybe. But Leo's gone. I tried everything. And the rumors we hear . . . he's long dead."

"I hope you're wrong."

"I'm rarely wrong."

"Oh, I expect you're wrong about as often as other people."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"After everything — all the years and all the trouble and not being able to live together on your stupid Island — do you still love Carl?"

"I suppose it doesn't seem so at the moment."

"I wouldn't say that."

"No?"

"No."

"Well, I do."

"You're lucky. You've had a lot of time together."

"Somehow it never seemed like enough. I've always missed Kingsport."

"Of course you have. The company was jolly."

"I miss our rotten old boarding house. Waking up to him every morning. Being there all the time, not just visiting. How long did Leo live with you?"

"Seven years."

"Well then you don't need it explained to you."

"No."

"Maybe I could stand living apart if we'd never had Kingsport, but it's torture knowing what it could be and isn't. Even being away in the RAF is better. That's just ordinary separation like everyone else."

"You could do something about that, you know. When you get home. Move in."

"I don't see how. Nothing will have changed."

" _You_ will have changed. Carl, too, I'll bet. No more bullshit, right?"

"That's rich coming from you."

"No more games, Shirley. No more half-truths. It isn't worth it."

"You're right. But the law will still be the same. Our families, too."

"Fuck 'em."

"I can't ask Carl to risk all that. Ridicule. Exile. Maybe even prison. I've often thought he wouldn't survive that."

"No, maybe not. I almost didn't. But you know, I'd risk all that again to be back with Leo in our apartment. Even for a little while."

"You may find him again someday."

"No. I won't."

"You might."

"Promise me something?"

"What?"

"When you get back to Canada, move in with Carl. Everyone else can do whatever they're going to do or say whatever they're going to say, but you don't have to do their dirty work for them. There's no better _fuck you_ than being happy."

"Maybe I can get that embroidered on a pillow."

"I mean it."

"I don't even know if he'll take me back. Even before . . . _this_. He was hopping mad when I volunteered."

"Of course he was. I was furious when I worked out that Gustave's mystery Lysander pilot was _you_."

"Why?"

"Why the hell are you doing this, Shirley? Risking your neck for a country that would lock you up if it could? I never understood that with Leo either."

"It's not about the country. It's about my own self-respect."

"Hang your self-respect. Be humble and disgraced at home with Carl."

"I tried that. But I need more than that quiet life."

"That sounds like pride, jackass, and not the good kind."

"I guess so."

"Had enough adventure yet, have you?"

"You mean between half-freezing and half-starving and then being locked in here like a rat in a cage?"

"No one asked you to come here."

"I was trying to help."

"Oh yes, very helpful. Thanks a bunch."

"Wilkie . . . I do want to help. I can't just sit this out. It's always been that way for me — protecting the line — ever since Carl nearly got sunk by a U-boat back when he first joined up."

"You can't protect everyone, Shirley."

"I can protect some, though. Remember that snitch?"

"It's different here. You're a liability and I don't have all that many strings left to pull. I have to get you out of here. Soon."

"Why? What if I stayed for . . ."

"No."

"I could . . ."

" _No_."

"Why not?"

"Why not? You mean besides your piss-poor French?"

"You could find something for me to do. The operation . . ."

"Please, Shirley! Stop! Just let me save one of you, dammit!"

". . ."

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's alright."

"You should get some sleep."

"You, too."

"Nah. I have to be up in an hour. Keep my normal routine. But you should sleep."

"If you have an hour, so do I."

"Sleep."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Sure?"

"Very."


	67. A Heart of Flesh

Apologies for the French, which I did not send out for beta-reading because I fell behind. (Sorry, mavors.)

* * *

 **A Heart of Flesh**

* * *

 **May 1942**

* * *

 _Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean: from all your filthiness, and from all your idols, will I cleanse you._

 _A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh._

-Ezekiel 36:25-6

* * *

Daniel was late. That was alright; Una always liked a quiet moment alone with St. Elizabeth while she set the altar. But he did not appear while she was spot-polishing the baptismal basin, nor when she was setting out his vestments in the sacristy. The organ began to emit reedy scales and the pews began to fill and Una was on the point of organizing a search party when Daniel blew into the sacristy, flushed and grinning like a schoolboy.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, kissing Una's cheek in greeting. "I went 'round to check that the Maylocks hadn't found some last-minute excuse to stay away."

Una nodded, warmth radiating from the spot on her cheek. "Are they on their way?"

"It's a good thing I went," Daniel said, slipping his arms into his surplice. "Mrs. Maylock and the girls were ready, but Mr. Maylock was still sulking."

Una bit her lip. It was one thing to convince Mr. Maylock to attend his grandson's baptism, but forcing him against his will might end in an uglier scene and make them all wish he'd stayed home after all. She wished she had a better feel for the case, but she and Daniel had agreed that she ought to stay away from this particular matter, lest she become a lightning rod for resentment toward her family. Daniel had gone on his own, not just once but several times over the past two weeks, taking tea and talking the Maylocks around a bit at a time, or so he said. Una would just have to trust him.

Now, Daniel stood at the sacristy credens, fiddling with the embroidered stole Una had set out for him.

"I wonder," he said, "whether I mightn't need more than this."

"More?"

Daniel let the silk slip through his fingers. "More . . . authority. Show everyone that this is a special celebration. I expect it would be good for Zoe to see that there isn't any skimping."

That was a good idea, and Una smiled her approval. She had always thought that Daniel looked very well in his chasuble, the gold-threaded brocade of the more formal vestments echoing the intricate beauty of St. Elizabeth's. He might not always wear it for a weekday baptism, but it would imbue the ceremony with solemnity. Una stepped toward the drawer to retrieve it, but Daniel shook his head.

"Will you fetch the green cope?" he asked.

That surprised her. The heavy damask cloak was for occasions of high ceremony. Daniel didn't favor it, preferring the easy movement of the lighter vestments, even on holidays. Una tried to remember if she had ever seen him wear the cope and decided that she would have remembered if she had.

It certainly was an impressive garment, Una thought, retrieving it from the cedar closet. The rich green was bordered in gold lace three inches deep and held together with a gold clasp across the chest. She helped Daniel ease it over his shoulders, smoothing it over the surplice perhaps once or twice more than strictly necessary. What had Marie Stopes called it? The _fundamental pulse_?

That had certainly been interesting reading, and Una meant to thank Faith if she could find the proper words. Faith had said that Stopes was _gentle_ and that was true to some extent. She had a way of reassuring her reader that it was quite normal for women to feel desire, no matter what they may have heard elsewhere. _So widespread in our country is the view that it is only depraved women who have such feelings, especially before marriage,_ Stopes wrote, _that most women would rather die than own that they do at times feel a physical yearning indescribably, but as profound as hunger for food._ That had been a relief, to see her most secret feelings set down in a book and be told that they were perfectly normal.

Something must have showed in her face because Daniel quirked an uncertain smile at her.

"Is something funny?"

"No," Una said, ducking her head and smiling all the more. "I'll tell you . . . some other time."

*/*/*

Perhaps it was a good thing that Daniel had been late. When Una took her seat under St. Elizabeth's window, people were still arriving, some of them furtively, others with chins raised in defiance. Several pews in the back were occupied by Lowbridge High students who whispered and giggled, while the Blythe-Meredith contingent took up a whole section in the front. Dellie and Portia Meredith were exclaiming over the baby while Faith and Nan looked to be on the receiving end of Mary Douglas's advice. Una was very glad to see Carl talking something over with Dr. Blythe, even though his new black suit didn't become him like the old cozy tweed. Father was deep in conversation with Ellen Douglas, who was pointing out various features of the sanctuary, and Jerry was helping corral Bruce's small fry as they attempted to escape from the cherrywood pews. Amelia Newgate caught Una's eye and waved, but was prevented from coming over to say hello by the sudden hush that fell over the congregation. Ordinarily, this might mean that the service was about to begin, but it wasn't Daniel who stood poised at the end of the aisle.

Una chided herself for staring, but couldn't quite manage to look away as the Maylock family processed down the center of the church. Mr. Maylock had on his very best suit and kept his eyes riveted on the altar, while Mrs. Maylock clung to his arm and shot nervous smiles at familiar faces in the pews. Their younger daughters followed behind, dressed in their Easter finery and craning their necks to get a glimpse of their sister.

There was an empty pew reserved for the Maylocks at the front, but they stopped short of it, unsure. Zoe's parents looked from one another to their daughter, who stood transfixed, her son in her arms. Una knew she was not the only person in the church holding her breath.

They might have gone on staring at one another until the end of days if Jem hadn't stepped in to save the situation. He unfurled the agreeable smile that had only rarely failed him and extended a hand to Mr. Maylock, who could hardly snub him so publicly. Jem pumped away, greeting both Maylocks as if they were dear old friends and inviting Faith to join them. Una thought her sister's smile flirted with the grotesque, but then, it was very hard to forgive people who didn't deserve it, even when they were making a belated effort.

But it seemed to be working. The Maylock girls had scooted past their parents and descended on Zoe, enveloping her mourning black in a flurry of pastel hugs and raining kisses down on the baby. The little red-headed fellow bore this incursion with admirable calm, only squalling when his mother passed him into his grandmother's arms. In all, it was a promising start.

A warbling chord from Mr. Allonby sent everyone to their places. They all stood a little straighter when Daniel processed up the aisle in his splendid cope, even Una, though the inclination of her heart was toward melting. It was only a trick of the light that he smiled as he passed her, or at least that was a plausible tale.

When he reached the dais, Daniel spread his hands in greeting. "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all."

"And also with you," chorused those of the onlookers who were at home in the little jewel-box church.

"Good morning," Daniel smiled. "We are gathered here today to welcome a child into the body of Christ. What a joyous occasion, in the midst of such hardship! Thank you all for coming today to rejoice and celebrate with this child and his family. You are all welcome, all of you, always."

Una smiled alone in her pew, feeling unaccountably close to tears. The tightness in her throat did not subside while Daniel explained the sacrament of baptism, nor during the readings, both Daniel's ringing Ezekiel and Anne Blythe's ecstatic Matthew: _Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind . . . Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets._

When it was time to bring the baby forward, Zoe approached with Dellie Meredith, who had agreed to stand as godmother. They looked awfully small up there, Una thought.

Evidently, Daniel agreed.

"Forgive me if this is unorthodox," he said to Zoe and to the congregation at large. "But I would also like the grandparents to come to the railing for this next part."

There was a bit of shuffling and whispering, but neither Blythes nor Maylocks could refuse such an order. Jem and Faith knelt at the rail where Una had prayed so often herself, joined there by Mr. and Mrs. Maylock. When they were in place, Daniel continued, voice carrying to every corner of the sanctuary.

"The Church receives this child with joy," he said. "We place our trust in you, godparent and grandparents, that you will always protect and encourage him. Will you promise to care for him and his mother, body and soul, and to set an example of generosity, compassion, and unconditional love?"

There was a brief pause, but all echoed, "We will."

"Do you reject the devil and renounce the corruption of evil?"

"We do."

"Do you repent of the sins that separate us from God and neighbor?"

"We do."

"Do you submit to Christ as Lord?"

"We do."

"Then may God deliver you from the powers of darkness, restore you in the image of his glory, and lead you in the light and obedience of Christ."

Una added her own quiet "Amen."

There were prayers over the baptismal basin and a profession of faith. Una watched Daniel's every move, feeling as though her chest might burst with pride. A terrible emotion, she chided herself, but she felt as if she might overflow when he took shook back the cope to take the baby in his arms.

"What is this child's name?" he asked, smiling gently.

Zoe answered in a voice used to filling this space with song. "His name is James. James Maylock Blythe."

Daniel nodded. "James, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

There were more prayers afterward, and more blessings. By the time Daniel bid them all offer one another the sign of peace, there were smiles all around and handshakes across the aisle. Little James ended up with his aunties while Zoe cried into her mother's shoulder.

Una might have held her own tears until later, if it hadn't been for the recessional. It wasn't a traditional choice, but St. Elizabeth's was full of Presbyterians today, and none of them thought anything of "How Firm a Foundation" except that Father Daniel sang it very well, and that, for some reason, it made Una Meredith cry.

* * *

"Do you have your gloves?" Wilkie called from the living room.

Shirley finished tying his shoe and touched the gloves lying beside him on the bed. "Yes. They're right here."

"And your papers?"

Shirley sighed. "Yes, Mum."

Wilkie loomed in the doorframe, one black brow arched in delicate challenge. "I'm just trying to make sure you aren't forgetting anything."

"I'm not."

"Really?"

Shirley took a quick inventory of the few things he could carry. Besides the clothes that Wilkie had insisted he keep, there wasn't much: train ticket, false papers, gloves, corkscrew knife, wa . . .

Shirley's head snapped up, riveted to the bright round of the Radiolite dangling from Wilkie's fingers.

"Take better care of this, won't you, Blythe?" Wilkie said lazily as he dropped the watch into Shirley's outstretched palm.

The metal was cool against his skin and Shirley closed his sound hand around it, trying to bring it back up to body temperature. He'd left it under the couch cushion this whole past week, never really wanting to look at the time too closely.

"Your guide will be here any minute," Wilkie said, stepping back. "You're clear on the plan?"

He was. A French guide would escort him on the train to Abbeville, then hand him off to Marcel, who would arrange a pickup for the May moon. Shirley would have preferred to stay the month in Arras, but that wasn't possible anymore. The operation against the Citadel was poised in the starting blocks and it wouldn't be safe here afterward. There would be searches, Wilkie had explained. Reprisals. Ever since last fall, the occupiers had taken to executing fifty Communist or Jewish prisoners any time the Resistance managed to assassinate a German.*

"Why not call off the operation, then?" Shirley had asked, aghast. "When you know they'll kill more hostages?"

Wilkie had frowned down at the blankets, shaking his head. "We're not responsible for their cruelty. They've been murdering innocent people all along and they'll go on doing it until someone stops them. The PCF is fighting back and I'm going to help them however I can."

"You don't have to fight," Shirley had protested. "You could hunker down and wait for help."

Wilkie had scoffed. "Where's the help, Shirley? Canada won't even take refugees. The British do some bombing and a couple of piddly supply drops every once in a while, begging your pardon. The Americans can't fight their way out of a paper bag yet. The Russians . . . well, they've got their own problems. No one is coming to save us."

"But you're condemning your own people to death."

A week ago, Wilkie would have snapped back, defensive and brittle. Instead, he had been nearly inaudible, even at inches.

"You think I don't know that?"

If he had argued, Shirley might have argued back. But there was no justification here, no conviction that armed resistance was good, even if it was right. This was a hellish sort of math and perhaps Shirley should have just been grateful that it wasn't his call.

"Come to England with me," he had said instead. "A Lizzie carries two passengers."

"Sorry, Blythe," Wilkie had said ruefully. _Wistfully_. "I've got a lot of work to do here."

"Is there a contingency plan? In case things go bad?"

Wilkie breathed a laugh. "Sure." But he was done talking and Shirley went along with the evasion even though he recognized it for what it was.

Now, in the dim light of dawn, preparing to depart, Shirley asked one last time. "Are you sure you won't come with me?"

"Very sure."

"Is there anything I can say to change your mind?"

"No. But you can do me a favor."

Wilkie went to the study and came back with a thick envelope bearing an unfamiliar address.

"A letter?" Shirley asked, contemplating the heft of the thing. There were several pages in there, and something solid as well.

"Just deliver it, alright?"

Shirley tucked the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest. He might have asked more questions, but there was a knock at the door and he followed Wilkie out to the living room to meet his guide.

She bounced over the threshold in a blur of black curls and pink sprigged cotton, waving cheerily.

"Bonjour, Cher Lis!"

"Mireille!" Shirley caught her in his arms, holding her close but staring at a smug Wilkie over her shoulder.

"Tu as bonne mine!" Mireille said, holding Shirley at arm's length. "Es-tu prêt à partir?"

"Tu es mon guide?"

"Oui," she smiled. "Tu m'as manqué. Quand Monsieur a demandé un voluntaire, j'ai sauté sur l'occasion."

"But . . ." he turned to Wilkie, "are you sure?"

Wilkie shrugged. "She can't stay here after today. Marcel says SOE has a place for a clever young partisan, so I guess that Lysander will be full after all."

"It carries three in a pinch," Shirley said earnestly.

But Wilkie had made up his mind. "Let's finish getting you ready."

The main difficulty with taking the train to Abbeville was that Shirley might be asked to speak somewhere along the way. He could understand most of what was said to him and look to Mireille for hints, but it was imperative that he not betray himself with his accent. To that end, Wilkie had devised a plan.

"Knife?" he said after setting out clean gauze and bandages on the table.

Shirley handed over his knife, rolling his eyes at Wilkie's smug expression.

"Where do you want it, Blythe?"

Shirley didn't much fancy injuring his fingers any further, nor incurring any other visible wounds. He opened the first two buttons of his shirt and pulled it aside, exposing his collar bone.

"Stop enjoying yourself so much," he grumbled as Wilkie pressed the blade to his skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

"Never," Wilkie smirked, pressing a pad of gauze to the wound, then squeezing the skin to express a bit more blood. When he had collected a sizable stain, Wilkie handed the soiled cotton to Shirley, who folded it and inserted the mess into his mouth, packing one cheek. Wilkie put pressure on the little cut with fresh gauze and directed Mireille to tie a long bandage under Shirley's jaw. When they were finished, he was a creditable dental patient, capable of mumbling garbled replies.

"Parfait," Mireille giggled.

"Oui," Wilkie agreed. "You just go on glaring like that and no one will get anywhere near you."

There was not much else to do. No luggage to carry; no future plans to make. An uneasy silence expanded between them until an over-bright Mireille asked to use the bathroom and hurried off, leaving Shirley and Wilkie alone.

Shirley had never been good with words, especially when they mattered, and was beyond grateful when Wilkie spared him the trouble.

"Well, I can't say you look very pretty at the moment," Wilkie drawled, fixing Shirley's lapel, "but you're definitely not dead. You're going to stroll out of this mess and make Meredith sorry he ever doubted. I just wish I could see his face when he gets your telegram."

The gauze was cumbersome in Shirley's mouth, but it wasn't the reason he couldn't speak. Empty-handed in the face of an incalculable debt, Shirley had nothing to offer except his complete presence in the moment.

Wilkie put out a hand, but Shirley bypassed it and grasped him above the wrist, pulse to pulse. Wilkie returned the old salute until Shirley pulled him into a firm hug and held on as long as he could.

When the bathroom door clicked open, Shirley pulled back from the scent of sandalwood. "Thanks, philos," he said thickly.

"Now don't get all sappy on me, flyboy," Wilkie said around a gentler incarnation of the old familiar smirk. "Just keep your head down and get yourself home safe."

*/*/*

Shirley had known Arras in the last war, though not from street level. It had been a convenient landmark, a pile of depopulated rubble visible from the sky and an easy way of marking distance from the aerodrome. In the two months he had lived here, he hadn't seen much more of it, never having left Wilkie's apartment after that first nighttime dash.

Now he followed Mireille through the cobbled streets of the waking city, hat pulled low and keeping a careful distance so that they did not appear to be traveling together. Other early risers went about their business with shuffling steps, eyes on the ground ahead of them, especially when they passed the German soldiers stationed here and there. An elderly shopkeeper swept his stoop, humming to himself, but most others were silent.

What would happen to that man today? Would the sound of gunfire and grenades send him cowering behind his counter? Would it bring him hope? Would he be able to go on humming and sweeping tomorrow?

Close to the train station, Mireille and Shirley passed a long line of women outside a butcher's shop. Some of them held the hands of small children; others had their ration books out, checking and re-checking the stamps that would allow them to purchase tiny portions of whatever meat was available. Three German soldiers had gathered on the corner to watch them, jesting with one another and pointing occasionally. Shirley's breath caught when one of them noticed Mireille and nudged his companions. Did they recognize her from the bakery? Would they stop her for their own purposes? But Mireille handled their attention deftly, sending a sweet smile their way while never slowing her feet. She sailed around the next corner, Shirley following at what he hoped was an unremarkable distance.

The train station was not far. Shirley already had his ticket, which meant that he did not need to interact with the ticket agent, but also left him with nothing to do but stand on the platform while they waited for the train. Feeling vulnerable and idle, he gave a coin to a paperboy and hid behind thick black headlines. Things were going well for the Japanese, apparently.

A train whistle sounded not far off, but Shirley's attention was focused closer at hand. German soldiers had started checking travelers' papers, moving from person to person from either end of the platform. Shirley watched around the corner of his newspaper, noting any variation in the interactions. They seemed to be standardized: a request, a passing of papers, a follow-up question or two. One older woman was so nervous that she dropped her identification booklet and stooped to chase it toward the oncoming train. The German NCO caught it for her and was handing it back when a shadow loomed across Shirley's paper.

"Vos papiers, s'il vous plaît."

Shirley Blythe had always had the ability to obscure any internal turmoil behind a mask of imperturbable calm. It served him well as he passed his forged identity papers to a German soldier no older than Gil Ford.

"Où allez-vous aujourd'hui, Monsieur Blanchet?"

"À Abbeville," Shirley said, consonants rounded by the bloody gauze distorting his cheek.

The young soldier grimaced in distaste and handed the papers back. Shirley's every nerve strained, ready for the next question, but apparently proximity was less desirable than thoroughness and the soldier moved away from the middle-aged man with the bad teeth.

Shirley did not allow himself even the slightest relaxation. Instead, he looked for Mireille, spotting her pink dress near the open door of a passenger car. He followed her aboard and into an otherwise deserted compartment, pulling the door shut behind them and sinking into the purple velveteen seat.

"Ça s'est bien passé?" she murmured.

Shirley nodded.

He was not quite sure whether to unfold his newspaper or feign sleep for the journey, but as the train pulled out of the station, he found himself studying Mireille. She had settled into the seat with a cream-colored novel - _Le Chant Du Monde_ — the pink bow of her lips flexing as she read. Shirley wondered whether she really was nineteen, and where her hometown was, and whether her parents knew where she was going. Why had he never asked Mireille about herself? True, their conversation was necessarily limited by his vocabulary, but he could have made an effort. He didn't even know her last name. But then, Shirley had never really known the names of any of his bunkmates in the last war, either. It hadn't seemed worthwhile. Perhaps he should have tried.

"Pourquoi tu fais ça?" he asked, surprising both of them.

"Huh?"

Shirley tried to speak clearly around the gauze. "Pourquois tu m'aides? Pourquois n'es-tu pas à l'école?"

Mireille frowned over the top of her book. "Ma père a servi durant la Grande Guerre. Mon frère est un prisonnier de guerre. Mon cousins sont mineurs communistes qui ont fai la grève l'an dernier. Pourquoi ne devrais-je pas aider aussi?"

It was as good a reason as any, though it didn't explain much. Maybe he could probe more once they were safe in Abbeville. They would have a couple of weeks of enforced isolation before the full moon and could puzzle over the question at length. Perhaps in writing.

"Vous voulez apprendre l'anglais?" he asked, imagining long hours wherever Marcel might stash them. "Je t'aiderai."

A dimple popped into Mireille's cheek, try as she might to feign nonchalance. "Je parle déjà anglais."

"Oh?"

Mireille could not suppress her grin any longer. Dark eyes sparkling with mischief, she lisped a whispered song that made Shirley roll his eyes and hide behind his paper.

" _On the good ship Lollipop, it's a sweet trip to the candy shop . . ._ "

* * *

Notes:

*For a summary and timeline of the Nazi policy of executing civilian hostages after attacks by the Resistance, see Christopher Neumaier, "The Escalation of German Reprisal Policy In Occupied France, 1941-2" ( _Journal of Contemporary History_ , 2006).

KwaC: My understanding is that Berlin was still friendly to gay expats in the late 1920s. W.H. Auden was there in 1928-9 and Christopher Isherwood went with him and stayed until 1933 (for a chronological marker, Hirschfeld's Institute for Sex Research was attacked in May 1933). When Isherwood left, he brought his boyfriend, Heinz Neddermeyer, with him, but Neddermeyer went back to Germany to visit in 1937 and was arrested and imprisoned. Wilkie's timeline is similar in that he knew that it was time to leave by 1932-3, but couldn't convince Leo to go. (Knot-untying soon. I think there are five chapters left.)


	68. Captain of the Sweet Flag

Content warning: violence, war-related deaths, discussion of suicidal thoughts (no deaths by suicide)

* * *

 **Captain of the Sweet Flag**

* * *

May 1942

* * *

The Gulf of St. Lawrence was wide and blue, unblemished by land or sail in any direction. Cheerful waves glittered in the spring sunshine, reflecting warmth and light while the depths below concealed many things in the frigid dark.

Una had looked askance when Carl had announced his intention of taking the _Sweet Flag_ out on the water, but what was he supposed to do? Stay home forever? He'd spent the last week tilling a new plot to extend the garden; Una wanted to try sugar beets and Carl was glad of the excuse to stab a pitchfork into the ground several thousand times. But it was nesting season and there work to do, even if it was very hard to care.

In fact, the only thing that had really captured his attention recently was Gil Ford's reply to his letter. _Don't worry, Uncle Carl. I had to bail when my kite caught fire and I got some burns when I unhooked my oxygen mask. It was a close shave, but the doctors say I should make a good recovery, even if it isn't very pretty to look at. Don't worry about my eyes — the goggles did me a real favor there. Now tell me about what's happening at home. Dellie says Zoe asked her to be godmother . . ._

"Don't rush yourself," Anthony had said, voice crackling over the line from Kingsport. They'd taken to trading short calls a couple of times a week in addition to their letters. What did it matter if someone listened in? They never said anything that couldn't be said in public. Anything more would have to wait for another time. Maybe in the fall, he'd go visit. Stay at Aster House.

 _Or not_ , a little voice said. _There are hotels in Kingsport_.

Carl winced at the traitorous thought. _Disloyal. Disgusting. How could you even think about . . . how could you ever . . ._

He leaned heavily on the steering wheel, feeling stupid for trying not to cry. Who cared if he cried out here? This was his boat and he was its captain and he could do whatever he damn well pleased out here. Could cry or curse or scream and no one would ever hear him.

Except the dog.

"Take Mugsy with you," Una had urged, though Carl protested that she'd scare the birds. It had seemed an odd demand at the time, but he hadn't though much of it. And truth be told, Carl had been glad of the dog's solid warmth in the bunk last night, cuddled close under a generous pile of wool blankets and the tobacco-stripe quilt.

A paradox, to sleep like that, below the waterline, snug and dry in a cozy bunk. They'd done it often enough, whispering in the dark and rocking with the waves, burrowed in the sea. Even Shirley had been happy out here. Sometimes.

But that was all done. Now Carl was awake and the icy Gulf beckoned with a long finger.

 _You have to take care of yourself. No more falling into the sea. I'm coming home, and when I do, I want to find you here in one piece. Can you do that?_

Shirley had called him back from the shore that night, wrapped him up, lent his own heat. But there were no rescuers out here today. Just one little boat bobbing in the endless, glacial Gulf. How long would someone last in the water? Hours? Minutes? It was so cold that it would knock the breath from your lungs the moment you went in, maybe even give you a heart attack. But if you swam out a little ways, far enough so that you couldn't change your mind, how long then? Would you drown? Or just go colder and colder as the warmth bled out of you and into the world until you were just an inert part of it? That mightn't be so bad.

 _Can't leave Mugsy alone on the boat_.

Carl blanched. That was the point, of course, though he hadn't realized it until this very minute. Damn Una, pulling an unseen string like that! Carl hadn't known that she suspected anything. And yet, she had tethered him to the boat as securely as if he were lashed to mast. She had imagined this very moment, when concern for the dog's welfare might belay him if he stumbled too close to the edge. Carl was unaccountably annoyed by the subterfuge. If Una was worried about him, she should have just said so instead of arranging things behind his back. Besides, he didn't really want to kill himself; he was just indifferent to living any longer. But if he did want to, there were other ways. What had Harry done? Turned on a gas jet. But, of course there was no gas at the little gray . . .

 _Christ!_

There was no gas at the little gray house! And it had nothing at all to do with a wood fire being better for baking, which, come to think of it, had never made any goddamn sense in the first place! It was all a lie and a conspiracy, all of it. The two of them, Shirley and Una, manipulating things without ever saying a word about it, making decisions without him, tweaking the details like the damned stove so that . . . so that . . .

 _So that he would be safe._

God damn it, Shirley! Arrogant, overbearing, condescending, tight-lipped bastard!

Carl dropped to his knees, all the fight going out of him in a keening wail, skirling on the wind with the screeches of gulls.

*/*/*

Cool spray from the crashing waves misted the lower parts of the Bird Rock, even halfway up the cliffs. Carl sat in the shade of a little overhang, looking out to sea without actually seeing much of anything. He was supposed to be counting nests, but he hadn't even opened his notebook. What was the point?

Carl had made it to the Bird Rock eventually, though he'd arrived rather later than he'd intended. He had recovered enough to be presentable, though he only half-trusted his jellied knees to make the climb up the cliff. He'd done it, though, with Mugsy peeking out of his knapsack. The Jubinville children had all been thoroughly enchanted with her, especially Arnaud, who was half-grown and beginning to yearn for the company of other young people. Mugsy had returned his enthusiasm, missing her own boys, grown up and gone away and gone. Now, she was asleep aboard the _Sweet Flag_ , but perhaps Carl would bring her topside again at suppertime. Mrs. Jubinville had invited him to their table as she always did, though Carl hadn't quite decided whether he could bear the look of concern she hadn't hidden well enough.

The afternoon grew long, but Carl did not stir. He found a pebble on his perch and balanced it on his knee, then flicked it off and onto the rocks below. It must have made a sound when it dropped, but it was lost amid the constant roar of the breakers. Another pebble and another, just for something to do.

When he ran out of pebbles, Carl leaned back against the cliff and stared out into the Gulf. Slanting sunlight glinted off waves that looked gentle at a distance. It was only when they roiled against the rocks that they revealed themselves for the implacable dangers they were. They could dash ships to pieces, toss trees like pickup sticks, pluck people from the shore and drag them under. Carl recoiled at the reminder.

He might have stayed there until dark if a curious herring gull hadn't come to visit. She hopped onto Carl's perch without fear, cocking her head and surveying him with a yellow eye.

"Can I help you?" Carl asked.

The gull ruffled her feathers and Carl caught a glint of silver. He looked more closely and yes, there was a little metal band around her leg. One of his.

Carl gasped. He had banded several dozen superclutch birds over the years, but had never encountered one of them a second time. Did she have a nest this year? Nearby? What sort?

Very carefully, Carl reached into his pocket and ripped off a bit of the cheese sandwich he hadn't eaten at noon. Bread wasn't good for birds, but seagulls were rats with wings and besides, it was only this once . . .

The gull was intrigued by the crust. She gobbled one bit, then another, until Carl had lured her to within arm's reach. He moved quickly but gently, scooping her up and checking the number on the tag, jotting it down in the back of his notebook. There were notes there, lists of numbers and dates and places, and one of them would tell him where and when he'd met her before. For now, it was important to observe.

Carl deployed his calipers, measuring and recording. When he was finished, he released the gull, heart fluttering in time with her wings. Would she lead him to her nest? An alien spark of excitement caught him off-guard, catching the updraft of his anticipation and flaring. It was good to know that it hadn't gone completely cold after all.

The gull walked along the rock and over the edge, flapping once to slow her descent to a lower level. Carl followed, scrambling along the cliff-face and trying not to disturb any of the other nesting birds. Luckily, he did not have far to go. The banded gull stopped when she reached a nest that looked just like every other in the colony, attended by an equally unremarkable bird.

Carl was breathing hard, but not from the short climb. It was probably nothing. Probably just a normal nest with an ordinary pair of gulls. There were all sorts of reasons why two females might have made a temporary bond in the past — they had gotten confused or there was a sex ratio imbalance in the colony or their male mates had died. All perfectly reasonable explanations.

"Pardon me," Carl breathed, lifting the sitter from its eggs with an unsteady hand, "I just need to get a quick peek at your leg."

No, actually, he didn't. The six eggs were immediately apparent.

Carl smiled. Couldn't help it. A long-term pair, confirmed! He measured the second bird, then set her back on her eggs and sat down beside the nest. Carl ran a finger down the column of notes until he found the match. Here they were: adult female pair, tags 383 and 384, for the third and fourth birds he'd tagged in 1938. They had been together at least five years. Very likely more. How about that?

Carl transferred his jotted measurements into a neat column, thinking. This was the stuff of articles. Good ones. He had years of observational data, in addition to a corroborating example from Nellie's Scottish friend. And now? An established pair, observed twice. He could write about that; no, he _should_ write about that. Other naturalists should know this. In fact, everyone who had ever admired a selfless pelican or invoked the graylag goose as a symbol of fidelity should know this, too. It might mean his job, if he went through with it. But who cared anymore? What was the point of hiding now? The government could fire him if they liked, but this was the truth and it deserved to be known.

Were there other superclutches here today? Other pairs he'd tagged before? He'd need to check. Maybe he could even start a draft tonight. He had other notes at home, and Nellie's letter. He'd have to consult those. And then, maybe he could run over to Charlottetown and use the Prince of Wales College library to double-check his citations. Nellie would read a draft, wouldn't she? And maybe Professor Michelson at Redmond?

Feeling a little warmer, Carl rose to his feet and went off to collect the rest of his data.

*/*/*

Carl had just logged his 84th nest when he caught a faint shout on the wind.

"Mr. Meredith! Mr. Meredith!" Arnaud Jubinville was scrambling over the rocks, scattering gulls and hollering at the top of his lungs. Behind him, his father was clambering down the gangway as quickly as he could, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

The nests were forgotten. Carl rushed to meet the boy, who pulled him along the rocks, gasping, "A ship! A shipwreck! With les . . . les . . ."

He groped for a word he clearly did not know in English and ended by gesturing wildly toward the bit of horizon now visible around the corner of the cliff. A smudge of smoke, gray streaked with orange. The word Arnaud didn't know was _flares_.

Carl was already moving fast, reeling in his safety line as he hustled toward the _Sweet Flag_. Mr. Jubinville met him there, heaving his rope over the gunwales and climbing in after.

"How far off?" Carl called, already cranking the engine.

"Eight miles," Mr. Jubinville said as Arnaud leapt onto the deck and hauled in the mooring rope. "Maybe ten. It is very low in the water."

That wasn't good. Not good at all. Even at top speed, it would take the _Sweet Flag_ an hour to reach the ship. Carl shuddered, knowing full well that survivors wouldn't last long in these frigid waters.

"Let's hoist the sail," Carl said as they pulled away from the Bird Rock. That would give them another knot or two, and every minute counted.

The flurry of activity had roused Muggins from her slumber belowdecks and she scrabbled at the cabin door until Arnaud set her free. She twined herself around Carl's shins, trawling for attention, but he had none to spare. Everything needed to be done at once: consult the compass and note the heading of the flares, run up the mainsail and secure the halyard, take a mental inventory of supplies . . .

"Mr. Jubinville!" Carl called. "Will you please go below and start boiling water? If anyone is in the water, we may need tea. And Arnaud? Find every blanket and sheet and towel you can."

A resounding _boom_ throbbed through the air like thunder. Carl ducked reflexively, flinging his arms over his head and crouching behind the steering wheel. For a moment, he could not distinguish deck from sky or Muggins's barking from the crash of the waves.

"It's the fog cannon!" Mr. Jubinville shouted. "I told Jeanette send a cable to the Magdalens and fire the cannon so that every ship in hearing distance will be on alert. Help is on the way!"

Carl shook himself and stood, gripping the wheel fiercely. His skin prickled in warning, but he couldn't exactly run off to the pear grove to shut his eyes and slow his breathing. He needed to focus. Function. The Magdalens were 20 miles away in the wrong direction and any help from that quarter would be a long time getting started. The _Sweet Flag_ was riding high and light, but when Carl looked over his shoulder, the Bird Rock was still distressingly near. Even with the sail full and rounded by the wind, this was no racing yacht.

What could have happened out there? Engine trouble? That was the best-case scenario, though if that were all, the ship might have signaled for help and sat patiently, not bothering with emergency flares. Iceberg? It was the right season for them, though it should have been easy to avoid them on such a clear afternoon.

There was another possibility, though Carl hardly dared imagine it. A huge black shape lancing along through the water, hunting, though not for little fish. There had been rumors around the harbormaster's shed, and Andy Burr swore up and down that he'd actually seen a U-boat up near the Cabot Strait. If they were racing into the aftermath of a torpedo attack, would the U-boat still be lurking nearby, hoping to pick off rescuers? It wouldn't waste its time or ammunition on a little motor-sailer, would it?

The cloud of smoke with its orange streaks hung on the horizon, but it was difficult to see anything else from sea-level. Every few minutes, Carl would dig out his monocular and strain to see the ship, but without success. He was sure of his heading, but even after half an hour they weren't close enough to see anything. Or there was nothing left to see.

The _Sweet Flag_ skimmed over the waves, closer and closer, until a tang of acrid smoke cut the fresh salt scent of the sea. Carl's nostrils flared in search of fresher air, but the smell strengthened with each passing minute.

They were very near now, a couple of miles at most. Carl brought his monocular to his eye again, willing it to conjure some solid shape out of the water. But there was no ship, not that he could see anyway, though dark spots in the water might have been debris or oil slicks. Carl's stomach dropped and he thought of Wally in the North Atlantic, safe one moment, gone the next. Except no, of course, even if it happened quickly, there still would have been a time in between, when people had thrashed in the water or shivered in lifeboats . . .

"Regardez!" Arnaud shouted. "A boat!"

Carl swung his monocular around to follow the boy's finger. Yes, there was a lifeboat at the edge of the debris field and two more behind it.

Carl ducked back onto the bridge and adjusted course slightly, closing the distance between the _Sweet Flag_ and the boats, one hammering heartbeat at a time. Closer now, he could see that the first lifeboat was packed to capacity. There were sailors manning the oars and huddled civilians crowding the benches, some of them women and small children.

When the _Sweet Flag_ came near enough to shout, Carl cut the engine back while Mr. Jubinville and Arnaud took in sail.

"Tie up!" Carl bellowed, hands cupped around his mouth. "We'll tow you in!"

The young naval officer standing in the prow waved his arms in a dramatic slashing gesture. "Negative! Men overboard! Men overboard!"

He pointed back over his shoulder to the debris field imperfectly visible amid the waves. Carl gulped. Men overboard. How many? How long?

He gave a thumbs up to the officer, then pointed back the way they had come. "Lighthouse! Ten miles!"

The officer returned the thumbs up, then put a whistle between his teeth and signaled to the other boats to form up on him. They'd be alright. It was an awfully long row, but it was still a while til sunset and they'd be able to follow the light in any case. Slow going, but they'd get there. Would they be able to find the landing in the dark? Or climb the gangway even if they found it? Well, perhaps someone from the Magdalens would meet them there.

No time to wonder. There was work to do.

"Mr. Jubinville!" Carl called, gagging on the smell of smoke. "Please watch for men in the water! I'll go slow!"

 _They had taken shelter in a barn, the sweet smell of clean hay all around. Now that they were finally off the line, the men were relaxed and joking, enjoying a smoke and the bolstering comfort of a hot supper. Carl had found a quiet corner and curled up with Cricket in his pocket, head resting on his pack. He fed the rat a bit of biscuit and stroked his fur. You could still hear the guns in the distance, but they were muffled, almost soothing, like the constant rumble of the sea._

 _He must have slept because when he woke, flames were already leaping up the wall. Men were shouting and Carl would have too, if he hadn't been choking on a lungful of smoke. Where was the door? Carl dropped to hands and knees and crawled in what he hoped was the right direction. Gray smoke streaked with orange. Impossible to see anything. But then the air was fresher and he was almost safe._

 _"Help!"_

 _Sgt. Donovan was shouting, not far off, and Carl turned back, squinting through the smoke. He was there somewhere, just beyond reach._

 _Then the roof caved in and came raining down in flakes of fire like Dante's hell. The rubble pressed from every side and Carl couldn't move at all and Sgt. Donovan was screaming . . ._

"Look!" Arnaud Jubinville cried. "A man!"

Carl heard him as a swimmer floating in a placid pond, ears submerged.

"Mr. Meredith! Arrêtez! Stop!"

Yes, he must _stop_. Shivering, Carl fumbled with the controls, managing to cut the engine but no more. He only kept his feet by hanging onto the helm. Luckily, the man in the water was able to grasp the line the Jubinvilles threw him. They had barely hauled him up on deck, dripping and ice-white, when they spied another.

"To starboard!" Mr. Jubinville shouted.

Carl did not respond immediately.

"Mr. Meredith!"

He _must_ turn the boat. _Must_. But in order to do that, Carl needed to be in the present. Needed to to be where he was. The cool wheel under his slick fingers, the pain in his lip where he was biting it, the sharp report of Muggins' frantic barking. The little dog was hopping up and down, but she wasn't looking out to sea. Carl followed her attention skyward, up, up, up . . .

The RCAF reconnaissance plane was a bright, daffodil yellow. It dipped low over the debris field, waggling its wings in salute to the _Sweet Flag_ and her captain. It must have come from the Magdalens, which meant that there would be boats too, racing along as quickly as they could. The plane banked in a sunny arc and Carl found his hand pressed over his breast pocket without having made a conscious decision to put it there. The growling engine above was an absurd comfort; the cheerful hue fairly chirped encouragement. It was all real and all right now and so was the next man in the water. Carl turned the wheel and went to rescue him.

*/*/*

Over the next hour, the _Sweet Flag_ pulled in twenty-six survivors. There was a coal-stoker and a teenage girl and a man with a terrible gash on his head that Carl wrapped with strips of bedsheet. One was a nursing sister who gave orders to the others through her own chattering teeth, sending them down below, out of the wind, where they peeled off their sodden clothes. Arnaud wrangled tea and Carl manned the helm while Mr. Jubinville played lookout. When he spotted a survivor, Carl would navigate close and then help the Jubinvilles haul the person aboard. Some they found bobbing on the surface in life vests, while others clung to bits of flotsam in twos and threes. Some weren't survivors at all, but corpses with haloes of hair floating inertly on the gentle waves. They hauled these aboard as well, hoping some were merely unconscious, but soon there was no more room and they left them.

Carl didn't notice how low the sun had dipped until the Bird Rock light blazed up in the distance like a friendly star. They'd need it, too.

"There's another one!" Mr. Jubinville cried. "No, wait. _Calice_. Just a box."

Carl called down below for someone to pass up a lantern, but it was plainly inadequate to the advancing dusk. Besides, the _Sweet Flag_ was full, riding low, the cabin filled long ago and the more recent survivors huddled on the deck wrapped in blankets and Carl's extra clothes and every spare bit of canvas on board. Even if they could find more survivors, where would they put them?

But there were more out there. There had to be. How could they just leave? How could they go home and say they hadn't stayed til the very last? There were people in the water, alone, desperate, hoping for a miracle, and Carl couldn't leave any of them behind. At the same time, the people on board were in bad shape, especially those who had been in the water longer. Tea was helpful, but it wasn't magic. If they didn't get these people dry and warm soon, they would begin losing them. They had to go.

It was an officer's decision and Carl had never been an officer, unless being captain of the _Sweet Flag_ counted. But he weighed the possibility of finding anyone else in the dark against the miserable posture of the half-frozen survivors under his care and made the call.

He was on the point of giving the order to pack it in, but Arnaud interrupted.

"Look!"

Carl followed Arnaud's pointing finger to the west. There, between the _Sweet Flag_ and the Bird Rock, were smaller lights, several of them, winking against the waves. Boats from the Magdalens.

Despite his exhaustion, Carl smiled.

"Good!" he shouted back. "Let's go home!"

Mr. Jubinville gave the thumbs up and Carl began to rev the engine when he stopped dead. Where was Mugsy? She wasn't at his feet and he couldn't hear her barking. When was the last time he had noticed her? When she saw the RCAF plane? That was a long time ago.

"Muggins!" he called. "Mugsy!"

A few people turned their heads, but there was no answer.

"A dog?" Carl shouted to no one in particular. "Has anyone seen a dog?"

A young seaman shook his head. "What kind of dog?"

That scared Carl as bad as anything. How long had that man been aboard? And he hadn't seen a dog at all?

"Take the helm," Carl said to Arnaud, who goggled but obeyed.

A quick check of the decks revealed nothing. No Muggins cowering in the bow; no Muggins sitting beside the rudder bar. She couldn't have gone overboard, could she? Without anyone noticing? Carl's heart seized and he imagined half a dozen disaster scenarios before it spat out the next beat.

"Mugsy?"

 _Carl woke in total darkness, his head throbbing so intensely that he retched. The whole right side of his face was an indecipherable agony and Carl couldn't bear to reach up and touch it for fear of what he might find. A blur of impressions: bare dirt beneath him, moaning nearby, a tang of blood in the breezeless air, a warm something quivering under his tunic._

 _Cricket._

 _Carl reached into his pocket to stroke the rat, who chirped a greeting. Wherever he was, he wasn't alone._

 _"Take that one," said a businesslike voice. A woman's voice. A woman? Here?_

 _Close at hand, there was a scuffling of boots, a grunt, and a man groaned as he was lifted up and away. Wounded. Yes, a wounded man being carried away. Carl focused on Cricket, the tiny heart under his hand beating so fast it felt like a purr._

 _Someone crouched in the vacant space at Carl's side and he jumped at the touch on his shoulder._

 _"Be still, Private," she said placidly. "I'm going to take a look under this dressing."_

 _"Where am I?"_

 _"CCS."_

 _"My head . . ."_

 _The bandage was coming loose under her capable fingers, but even when they fell away, Carl found that he still could not see. The nurse clucked her tongue._

 _"We'll get you into a bed as soon as the orderlies come back," she said briskly as she re-wrapped._

 _Carl quailed, but he had to know. "Please, how bad is it?"_

 _The nurse did not answer right away, but when she did, she said, "Not as bad I thought it would be. But I expect you'll be going home."_

 _Then she was moving away, on to another patient, and the orderlies would return at any moment. Carl might have worried about his wound, but in the moment, his only coherent thought was that a hospital was no place for a rat, not even one as soft and sympathetic as Cricket. Moving gingerly, he scooped the little fellow-mortal out of his tunic and dared one last caress before setting him down in the dirt._

 _"Thank you," he whispered. "Now go before anyone sees you."_

"Mugsy!" Carl tripped down the stairs into the shadowy cabin. How could he have lost the dog? They were supposed to look after one another. He had to get these people to safety, but how could he ever go home without Muggins?

The cabin stank of wet wool and oil, but was much warmer even than the bridge. A single small lantern illuminated people in various states of undress crammed into the bunk and snugged together under towels in the galley.

"A dog?" Carl asked, near tears. "Has anyone seen a dog?"

"She's there," the young girl said, pointing to a dim corner.

Carl hadn't noticed the tobacco-stripe quilt at first. It was old and faded and easy to overlook in the weak light. Now he saw that it sheltered three sailors propped up against the wall. On the end, the youngest of them had Muggins nestled on his chest, the quilt pulled tight around them both.

"Do you need her back?" the young sailor asked, dark eyes liquid in the rolling lantern light.

"No," Carl said, swaying with relief. "No. You keep her. Warm up."

Everything was alright, or at least it would be. Back on the bridge, Carl took the helm from Arnaud and cranked the engine. They'd rendezvous with the other rescue vessels and get these people to safety. And after that . . . well, after that, Carl had an article to write.

* * *

Notes:

German U-boats sunk 27 ships in the Gulf of St. Lawrence between May and October 1942. This torpedo attack is fictional, though it bears some similarities to the sinking of the SS _Caribou_ , the passenger ferry between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, which was torpedoed in the Cabot Strait on October 14, 1942. The _Caribou_ exploded and sank within five minutes, killing 137 people including military personnel and civilians of all ages. One of the notable deaths in the sinking of the _Caribou_ was Nursing Sister Agnes Wilkie, the only Canadian nurse to die from enemy activity in WWII. She froze to death as she clung to an overturned lifeboat for several hours waiting for rescue; her friend, Nursing Sister Sub-Lt. Margaret Brooke, tried to hold onto her body, but had to give up eventually. In 2015, the Canadian Navy named an Artic/Offshore Patrol Ship after Margaret Brooke, who stayed in the Navy until 1962 before retiring and earning a PhD in paleontology. She died in 2016, age 100.


	69. Letters of Note

**Letters of Note**

* * *

 **31 May- 2 June 1942**

* * *

It was nearly dawn when Lysander C touched down on the racing mile at Newmarket. When the engine quit growling, Shirley showed Mireille how to unhook her harness and opened the canopy to the cool, meadow-scented air of an English spring.

"Good morning, Blythe," Squadron Leader Grayson grinned from the base of the ladder. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence, have you?"

Shirley climbed down after Mireille and met Grayson's smile with a handshake. "Good to see you, sir."

"And you, Blythe. And this must be Miss Cathelain?"

"Yes," Mireille answered for herself, beaming at Shirley as she tried out the English they had been practicing together these past three weeks. "I am Mireille Cathelain."

"Enchanté," Grayson replied, bowing low over her hand.

Shirley cleared his throat. "Sir, would it be possible to borrow a car? I need to go into the village to send a telegram."

"All in good time, Blythe. Let's get you inside and cleaned up. You'll both need a proper breakfast and a bit of sleep. Then we'll have the medical officer give you the once-over and you'll need to sit with a couple of intelligence officers for a post-evasion interview . . ."

"I'd really like to send a telegram first, sir."

Grayson's eyebrows drew together. "The intelligence chaps won't like that, you know. Private communications before they've had a chance to speak with you . . ."

"Sir," Shirley clenched his jaw, swallowing the flare of impatience. "Please. I need to tell my family I'm alive."

"The RAF will take care of that, Blythe. No need to pay for a private cable. Just as soon as you're cleared, they'll send word to your next of kin and . . ."

Shirley had attempted to keep his face impassive as ever, but the strain must have shown through.

Grayson stopped mid-thought and gave a curt nod. "Right you are, Blythe. It'll be a while before the telegraph office opens; go have some breakfast and then I'll drive you in myself."

*/*/*

Shirley paused on the dim landing, adjusting his uniform before he knocked. He had climbed three flights of creaking stairs and didn't want want to pay his respects looking mussed. Really, he wasn't sure he should be here at all, but he had promised and it was respectful to come in person.

"Hanna Becker?" he asked when a gray-haired woman in a floral housedress answered the door.

The woman looked him up and down twice, seeming to approve of the uniform, though she ended by shaking her head. "Nein," she said.

This was certainly the right house, unless scads of Londoners spoke German these days. Shirley had just assumed that Hanna Becker must be the head of the family. Blast, why hadn't he asked for more information about them? Stupid, really, not to have been more curious. Should he just leave? Try again later? He could come back to London after he went out to the hospital . . .

But the woman was beckoning him inside, repeating _bitte bitte_ as he acquiesced, stepping over the threshold and taking the kitchen chair she offered him. The apartment was neat but threadbare, giving the impression of a household that calculated the weekly grocery budget down to the ha'penny.

"Hanna," the woman said, plucking a photograph from the frame-crowded sideboard and placing it in front of Shirley. Yes, he could see the resemblance between mother and daughter in the wide, friendly mouth. Hanna was probably in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with dark, glossy hair pinned elaborately around a heart-shaped face. A sister, then.

"Very pretty," he said, forcing a smile and hoping it was the right thing to say.

Mrs. Becker's English was about as robust as Shirley's German, so they did not speak as she bustled about preparing tea. Shirley's eye drifted to the other photos on the sideboard. An old silver frame, the sort with little hinged doors like an icon, showed a middle-aged man in clothes twenty years out of date. In a much more recent picture, two dark-haired boys in British infantry uniforms stood either side of Mrs. Becker, grinning at the camera. And next to that . . .

It couldn't be anyone else. A young man with laughing eyes and the familial wide mouth, who was, in Wilkie's words, so damn cute.

"Thank you," Shirley said when Leo's mother placed a cup of tea in front of him. The pattern on the cup was unfamiliar, but he found a little solace in tracing it with his thumb.

Before Mrs. Becker had taken her first sip, there was a clatter of shoes on the landing.

"Hallo, Mama!" Hanna said as she stepped through the door. She wore the coveralls and headscarf of a factory worker and carried a lunchpail, which rattled when she spotted Shirley sitting at the table.

"Who are you?" Hanna blurted. Then, taking in the scene — a strange officer in dress uniform sitting across from her mother, looking somber — she staggered. "It's not Albie is it? Or Rudy?"

"No," Shirley said, rising to his feet. "I'm sure they're alright. I'm sorry to alarm you."

Hanna and Mrs. Becker exchanged a stream of incomprehensible German, leaving Shirley staring uselessly from one to the other.

"Who are you?" Hanna asked again, crossing the room to stand beside her mother and looking like she wished she had a weapon sharper than a lunchbox.

Shirley slipped his hand into his pocket, drawing out the envelope and holding it before him as an offering. "I'm Squadron Leader Blythe of the RAF. I only came to deliver this."

"The RAF delivers the post now?" Hanna asked, glaring.

"No. It's only . . . it's a favor. For a friend."

"What friend?"

Shirley swallowed. True, there was a portrait of Leo in a place of honor on the sideboard, but you never knew how things stood with family. Still, Hanna looked about ready to start flinging saucers, so best stick with the truth.

"A friend of Leo's," he said carefully.

Hanna's eyebrows leapt in surprise. Mrs. Becker gave a little yelp and clutched at her daughter's hand, choking out a clarifying question that didn't need any translation.

"No," Shirley said, wishing himself anywhere but where he was. "No, I'm sorry. It isn't from Leo. I don't have any information about . . . about where he is . . . or . . ."

"Explain yourself," Hanna demanded, brooking no opposition nor demurral. "Who are you and how do you know Leo?"

"I don't know him," Shirley said dismally. "A friend of his asked me to deliver this and I . . ."

"Which friend?"

Shirley swallowed. "Mr. Marshall."

If Hanna's brows went any higher, they'd soon fly away. Her face, pale before, had gone bone-white. "Wilkie . . . is . . . alive?"

Her tone was unreadable, but she and Wilkie were on a first-name basis. That was something, wasn't it?

"Yes," Shirley said with every outward pretense of confidence. "Yes, he's alive. He sent you this."

He placed the envelope on the table, then backed away up. Hanna looked from Shirley to the letter and then back again, gathering her wits before she seized the envelope and slipped a finger under the flap.

There was indeed a letter, though it only accounted for the first sheet, written front and back in that same sure, steady hand that had sent so many postcards to Shirley J. Blythe, Blythe Aviation, Mowbray Narrows, PEI, Canada.

 _You were right. No explanation necessary._

But even at a distance of several feet, Shirley could see that the letter was written in German and the only way to know what it said was to follow Hanna's expression as it collapsed in slow motion. At the end, she shook her head and said something soft and apologetic to her mother. Mrs. Becker held out a hand for the letter and Hanna hesitated before surrendering it, but only for a moment.

While Mrs. Becker read, Hanna shuffled through the other papers. Several of them bore the official stamps and seals of legal documents, while others were clearly bank statements. The solid bit turned out to be the key to a safe deposit box, folded into a paper bearing handwritten directions to a London bank. The last was a will, bequeathing his entire estate to Hanna Becker and her heirs.

"You said he was alive," Hanna said, squinting skeptically at Shirley.

"He is."

"Why did he send his will?"

Shirley contracted the painful middle finger til it throbbed. "Contingency plan, I suppose."

The papers flapped as Hanna flicked her wrists in an exasperated shrug. "What am I supposed to do with all this?"

"May I?" Shirley waited for her to give permission, then took the pages and spread them on the table. He looked them over briefly, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic as he learned exactly how rich Wilkie still was, down to the penny. Not as rich as he had once been, judging by the earlier balances and the huge, untraceable cash withdrawals of the last several years. But still quite enough to be going on with.

"Here," Shirley said, pointing to one of the legal documents. "This is a durable power of attorney giving you control of all his assets. The notary's signature and registration is old — see? July 1935."

"That's when we came to London," Hanna said haltingly. "He came along to see us settled."

"He must have had this drawn up then. He never told you about it?"

"No," Hanna said blankly. "No, he never did."

Shirley shrugged. "Maybe he thought you wouldn't need it."

"What does _durable power of attorney_ mean?"

Shirley was having a little difficulty standing. Why hadn't he asked more questions? They could have talked about this. He could have asked more about what had happened, what was happening, what was going to happen . . .

"I think it means you can access all of these accounts," he said, pressing his sound fingers to the table to keep from swaying. "The British ones, anyway. I don't know about the Swiss."

Hanna had shaken her head enough that her kerchief came loose. She tugged it off and twisted the fabric in her hands.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Take care of your mother, I guess."

"This is a lot more than that."

Shirley couldn't argue with that. "Well, just . . . do whatever you think is right. Give it away if you like. What would Wilkie do?"

Hanna looked up from the papers to give Shirley a look of such extravagant disapproval that he almost felt that he could have laughed. Evidently, she had known him after all.

"Alright, wrong question," he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "What would Leo do?"

*/*/*

The corporal at the reception desk had sent a message upstairs and directed Shirley to wait in the sitting room. He did, thinking at first that it was unoccupied. It was a large room with several little alcoves and plush seating areas where Lord and Lady Whoever-They-Were had entertained guests before the manor house had been converted into a convalescent hospital. Shirley was halfway to a leather armchair by the window when a sniffle from the sofa betrayed whoever was hiding there. Perhaps it would be unkind to disturb whoever might be crying in a hospital waiting room, but kinder than letting them think they were alone.

Shirley moved the armchair, purposefully letting it scrape against the floor. The sniffling stopped and a strawberry-blonde head popped up over the back of the sofa, puffy eyes widening in disbelief as the woman recognized Shirley.

"S-S-Sir?"

Shirley was equally surprised, though perhaps he shouldn't have been. Fear tightened his chest at sight of the woman's running mascara.

"Rose," he said blankly. "What's happened? They told me he was recovering."

Section Officer Rose Findlay-Stevenson goggled at Shirley, quite unable to respond to questions with her crimson-lipped mouth hanging open. She did not seem much reassured when he crossed the room to the settee opposite her, nor when he took a seat, nor when he spoke again.

"Rose? Is Gil alright?"

"You're not dead," she said accusingly.

Shirley removed his cap, grimacing. "No. I'm not."

"Where have you been?" Rose pressed. "Gil thought maybe France?"

"I really can't say," Shirley said, shaking his head. "But how is Gil? They told me he was doing well."

Rose nodded, shuddering with the aftershock of tears. "He is. He's alright. There was a fire in his kite and he had to bail. He has some burns and he broke his leg in the landing, but he's alright, truly. The doctors said from the first that he'd recover, and I hear he's doing better now."

Relief was supposed to feel like a weight lifting, but Shirley could have sworn that he sank into the settee cushions as tension flowed out of his body.

"You _hear_ he's better? Haven't you seen him?"

One bright lip trembled and Rose clenched her fist. When she did, a little chip of diamond glittered on her ring finger.

"He won't see me!" Rose growled. "I went to see him in the hospital, but as soon as he was really awake, he ordered me out. They moved him here to rest, but he still won't let me visit. I write him letters. And I thought if I came today, he'd have to see me. But he won't! Stubborn ass."

"And the nurses won't let you in?"

"They're very apologetic about it," Rose sniffed. "But they're supposed to keep him calm so he can rest."

Shirley grimaced. "Well, let me see what I can do."

A footfall at the door announced the arrival of a white-veiled nurse who smiled sympathetically at Rose and beckoned to Shirley. She led him up stairs and down hallways, past a library and a billiards room where men chatted and read and played cards. There were wards, too, mostly empty at this time of day, though some men napped or wrote letters in solitude. Near the end of a long corridor, the nurse paused, gesturing into a room where a man in a wheelchair sat framed in the clear light of a large window, gazing out over the lawns. One leg stuck out straight, encased in plaster, and there was a bandage around his head, obscuring the bottom part of his face and most of the close-cropped gold fuzz.

Shirley nodded to the nurse and straightened his cuffs, delaying only a moment before crossing the threshold. There were six beds in the room, but they were unoccupied at the moment. Shirley passed them quietly but not silently, not wanting to startle his nephew. He must know that someone was here, but he did not look up, not even when Shirley reached the window.

"Gil?"

Gil Ford turned slowly, then caught sight of the uniform and followed it up, up, up . . .

" _Holy shit!_ " Gil yelped through the bandage, jumping so violently that his chair jerked backward a couple of inches.

Shirley was too busy evaluating him to make any reply. The cast stopped below the knee, which was a good sign. Hands sound. Weight alright. The eyes bright and unclouded, though wide with shock. The dressing around his face and neck was the most concerning; it emerged from his collar and covered chin, mouth and nose, with slits left for breathing. But it couldn't be too bad, could it, if he could speak?

"Have I really died, then?" Gil said, gray eyes doing a creditable impression of his grandmother.

The words were muffled and indistinct, and Shirley didn't think it was only the bandage. Gil sounded like an inexpert ventriloquist, chin barely moving and certain letters dropped here and there, though his meaning was clear enough.

Shirley forced a smile. "Do you really think that when you die, _I'm_ the one who's going to be welcoming you to heaven?"

"Didn't say heaven."

Shirley's laughter did not wipe the astonishment from Gil's face, though the subsequent hug replaced it with mutual tears. It was awkward to get arms around one another, what with the chair and not wanting to put any pressure on the bandages, but they managed.

"You're . . . _not_ . . . dead!" Gil sobbed into Shirley's shoulder.

"Not yet."

"Holy shit!" Gil hissed, pushing Shirley back with sudden vehemence. "Uncle Carl! Did you send him a telegram?"

Now it was Shirley's turn to be surprised.

" _Uncle_ Carl, is it?"

"You sent him a telegram, _right?_ " Gil pressed.

"I did."

Gil relaxed, melting into the chair in his relief. "Good. That's good. God, you _aren't dead_. I told him so! I did! He didn't believe me, but I was _right_."

Shirley, so certain a moment ago that they both inhabited the prosy world of the living, was beginning to have doubts.

"You've been writing to Carl?"

Gil waved an impatient hand toward the first bed on the near side of the room and wheeled himself over to it. When he got within reach of the nightstand, he wrenched open the drawer and dug among the letters, coming up with five or six. Even at this distance, Shirley recognized Carl's scrawl by the way the lines tilted up at the end, even on the address. He refrained from snatching, but barely.

"Here," Gil said, thrusting them toward him. "Have 'em. They're mostly about you anyway."

Shirley cradled the envelopes in his palm, running a thumb over Gil's name, unable even to say _thank you_. Five months felt like aeons and a different universe besides.

"Your hand . . ." Gil said, staring.

"It's fine."

"You were in France?"

Shirley heard the question, but it did not register. "Is Carl alright?" he asked, trying to make sense of the dates on the postmarks. One barely a week old.

Gil scoffed. "Of course he's not! How could he be alright? With you gone and then Wally, too . . ."

Shirley's head snapped up. "Wally? What's happened to Wally?"

Gil goggled. " _Shit_. You haven't had any news from home since New Year's?"

"None."

Breaking bad news was a skill, one which Gilbert Ford did not possess. Shirley had worked out the truth long before Gil managed to get through all the words.

"When?" he asked desolately.

"January. We got the news at the beginning of February. They sent you a telegram from home, but you never responded. I tried to find you so we could go visit Sam together, but Grayson wouldn't tell me anything, so I knew something was wrong even before anyone got official word about you."

 _Damn_. He had hoped he might go unnoticed for longer. Early February? He was only just meeting Gustave then. And Wally? Jem and Faith must be crushed. And Zoe? _Damn_.

"The official word," Shirley said, grimacing. "What was it? Did it say I was only missing?"

"Presumed dead," Gil said bluntly. "I told Uncle Carl you weren't, but he didn't believe me. Cripes, I'll bet he's having a heart attack right now! And Granny and Grandad, too! It was awful hard on everyone, you know, losing the two of you at the same time."

The admonishment struck Shirley funny and he began to chuckle tremulously. It was too much, really, being scolded for dying, on top of the shock of Wally's death and meeting the Beckers and the residual nerves from the moonlit flight and the day he'd spent in interrogation, going over and over every detail of his evasion with the intelligence officers. Well, maybe not _every_ detail. But now he was back in the mundane world and Gil Ford was scolding him for tormenting Carl.

Suddenly, Shirley knew he was going to be sick.

He bolted for Gil's bedpan, heaving indecorously. It was only when he reached for the handkerchief Gil held at arm's length that Shirley realized that he hadn't vomited in France. Not once. He always did when a fight was over.

"You alright there?" Gil asked, attempting to cover his revulsion and not quite succeeding.

Shirley sank onto the edge of the bed, mopping his face with the handkerchief. "I did once tell you that I puked a lot during the first war, didn't I?"

"Uh . . . yes?"

"Whenever I was back on solid ground after a mission."

"So you're back now?"

"I guess so."

Gil squinted, still obviously disgusted, but ready to move on to other news. "Well, you certainly missed a hell of a lot. Zoe had the baby. She named him James; Dellie says _Walter_ is a cursed name and no one in the family is ever allowed to use it again. Una Meredith stole a house and Uncle Carl's been in all the papers since he saved all those people from a U-boat attack . . ."

A wave of nausea that had nothing to do with dogfights roiled Shirley's stomach and he must have blanched because Gil stopped short.

"It's all in the letters," Gil said apologetically. "You can catch up at your own speed."

" _U-boat attack?_ " Shirley spluttered.

"He's fine!"

"What happened?"

Gil shrugged. "There are U-boats in the Gulf. They torpedoed a passenger ship and Uncle Carl rushed in and fished people out of the water. It's all in the letters!"

Shirley's heart was tripping along to beat the band, but he took a slow breath and willed himself calm. He'd read the letters on his own and know whatever Gil knew. For now, there were other urgent matters.

"What about you?" he asked his nephew. "They tell me you're fine, but you're up here staring out a window in the middle of the day."

"They're right," Gil muttered. "I'm fine."

"I heard you had to bail."

"Did you? I thought you hadn't gotten any news."

"Well, I had a very interesting chat with a distraught WAAF officer down in the waiting room."

Gil turned his chair, lurching back toward the window.

"I told her to go away," he growled.

Shirley needed only a few steps to plant himself in front of Gil. "Did you? Was that before or after you asked her to marry you?"

"That's off."

"Is it? I think that might come as news to Rose."

Gil looked up, defiance only a thin cover for the hurt in the storm-grey eyes. "I'm not going to hold her to that. Not after . . ."

He gestured to his bandaged face with a dismissive wave that implied that this should be obvious.

"After what?" Shirley asked coolly.

Gil glowered, but Shirley met him with silence and an arched brow, inviting him to articulate what, exactly, invalidated his troth.

"It's a mess under all this," he said at last.

"And?"

Gil snorted. "It's bad enough that she saw me at the hospital. I'm not going to let her see me now, let alone make her marry me like this."

Shirley may have been short a few fingers, but he still had those necessary for steepling, pressing the tips to his lips. He tapped them there and was silent long enough that Gil got impatient and barked, "What?"

"Nothing," Shirley said blandly. "I'm just very familiar with that particular brand of stupid."

Gil threw him a filthy look and made to wheel away, but Shirley jammed a boot into the spokes of the chair and prevented him.

"You think she'll care about scars?"

"Of course she will."

Shirley clicked his tongue. "And you think she won't love you anymore?"

"I don't . . ." Gil's voice caught, but he was a brave kid. "I don't want her to . . . to feel obligated . . . she could have anyone . . ."

Shirley sighed, remembering Norman Douglas and his emphatic belief that the stork sometimes made mistakes.* Evidently. The difference was that he had been so terribly alone at this age, trying to do what he thought was best with no guidance and no help, wandering the streets of Paris in self-imposed silence. But it didn't have to be that way for Gil.

When Shirley spoke, his voice was soft. "Will you let me see?"

Gil blinked moistly but nodded. Shirley went to a supply cart in the corner, finding scissors and not caring that they'd probably catch hell from the nurses for disturbing the elaborate bandaging.

Back at the window, Gil closed his eyes as Shirley snipped carefully here and there, crouching to unwind the bandage from Gil's head and peeling it away from his jaw.

The burns were were tight and red, slick with antibiotic ointment, but they were obviously well on their way toward healing. They ran up Gil's neck and covered his chin and lower cheeks, stopping somewhat absurdly in twin curves where the goggles had protected his eyes. No wonder he was having difficulty speaking, with the lips all swollen and like that, but most of the skin was intact. There was one particularly bad patch on one side, still showing the aftermath of deep blisters, but those were healing. The nose, too, shiny and scarlet, but essentially intact. He might never be able to grow a beard, but he'd save on razors. Shirley had steeled himself for the worst, but this was far enough from it that he smiled instead.

"You don't have to laugh at me," Gil muttered.

"Hardly. I mostly just want to kiss you, but I'll leave that to the fair Rose."

"No. The wedding's off."

"Why?"

Gil dropped his gaze and fidgeted.

"I don't even know if I _can_ kiss her," he muttered.

"You'll figure that part out."

Gil didn't look up. It was clear that he had more to say, and Shirley waited, giving him the space to figure out how to say it. When he spoke, his voice was so low that Shirley had to lean closer to make it out.

"I don't want her staying with me because she thinks she ought to and then secretly thinking _it's an unendurable thing to see this_ face _across from her at the breakfast table every morning of her life_."**

Something ratcheted tight in Shirley's chest. He didn't know Rose Findlay-Stevenson all that well, but he'd liked her from the first and thought she was worthy of all their trust. At least he hoped so.

"If she loves you, Gil, she'll love your face because it's yours."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

Shirley was still holding the letters. He tapped them against Gil's knee, squaring the edges and gaining Gil's attention.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Gil," he said solemnly. "Not about anything. But especially not about that."

The grey eyes quivered, liquid for a brief moment. Gil looked as if he wanted to ask something, but didn't, and Shirley felt a little flare of frustration. He wanted to help, and could, if only Gil would say what was on his mind without editing it first. He was about to say as much when Gil came to the same conclusion himself. Well, he had always been the braver one.

"When did Uncle Carl lose his eye?" he asked.

 _Well, no more bullshit, right?_

"At Amiens. In the last summer of the war."

"And when you . . ." Gil faltered, "I mean, the first time you saw him . . . after . . . were you scared?"

Shirley thought back to his train ride home, peering through the windows toward the crowded platform, searching every face for the one that mattered.

"Yes. But the eye had nothing to do with it."

Gil cocked his head in puzzled invitation to elaborate.

"I was pretty scared he wouldn't want anything to do with me anymore," Shirley admitted.

He only said it because it was true, not as a reproach, but Gil winced anyway.

"Well," Gil said judiciously, "at least you don't have to worry about _that_ anymore."

 _If only._

"Neither do you," Shirley said instead. "Didn't you once tell me that you could tell Rose anything?"

"I guess."

"Then tell her what you're worried about. It isn't fair to send her away like this without telling her why. And it's . . . good to talk like that, I think. To trust her with important things and not just try to protect her. I know it's hard, believe me I do. But treat her like a fellow-officer, right?"

Gil looked down at his hands. "What if she sees me and we talk and . . . and then she decides to leave anyway?" he whispered.

Shirley wished with all his heart that he had a better answer. For all their sakes.

"Then that's her choice and you have to respect it, even if it hurts like hell. But listen, Gil: you won't be alone, no matter what. You've got a good life ahead of you."

There was a sniffle quite as desolate as the one downstairs. Well, if he could only get them sniffling together, Shirley thought things would work themselves out.

Gil dabbed at his eyes with a sleeve, careful to pat, not rub near the delicate skin of his healing cheeks. "Is she really downstairs?"

"Yep."

"Will you go get her?"

"Of course."

"And you'll come back?"

Shirley nodded. "I'll come back in the morning before I move along."

"Are they sending you back to Special Duties?"

"No," Shirley said, scarcely able to believe it himself. "I'm going home."

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 1 "Glen Notes and Other Matters"

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 21 "Love Affairs are Horrible"

There will be three more chapters and an epilogue.


	70. At the Close of Day

_Version Two (final scene updated substantially; first scene altered slightly to match it). This is better (and funnier). Thanks, kslchen!_

* * *

 **At the Close of Day**

* * *

 **June 1942**

* * *

 _When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow'd,_

 _And else when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still I was not happy,_

 _But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,_

 _When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,_

 _When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,_

 _And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy,_

 _O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well,_

 _And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend,_

 _And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,_

 _I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me,_

 _For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,_

 _In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,_

 _And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy._

\- Walt Whitman

* * *

When the doorbell rang, Una was upstairs, tucking a pile of folded sheets into the linen cupboard. Something was in the way, and when she peered in to see what it was, she found that the royal blue deaconess's habits had toppled over in an untidy heap. She had hidden them at the back of the shelf weeks ago, hoping to avoid the vexed question of whether they belonged in her armoire or in the ragbag. Now she found that she had quite forgotten them in the interval and would not have missed them in the slightest if they had just disappeared. Perhaps she should pack them up to donate? But the doorbell rang and Una shoved the sheets into the cupboard, covering over the problem for the moment.

Una scurried down the stairs and opened the door to reveal freckle-faced Foster Booth, his straw-colored hair sticking out from under his delivery-boy cap.

"Telegram for Mr. Meredith."

"Thank you, Foster," Una said, taking the envelope from his hand. "Wait here a moment, won't you?"

A quick trip to the kitchen supplied Una with a plate of gingersnaps and a nickel for a tip.

"Gee, thanks," Foster said, cramming one of the cookies into his mouth. "Sure do get a lot of telegrams these days, don't he?"

It was true. In the two weeks since the sinking of the SS _Snowdrop_ , Carl had become a minor celebrity and not just in local circles. The newspapers tended to play coy with reports of shipping losses, but the _Snowdrop_ had been a civilian passenger vessel. Headlines blared the story from St. John's to Vancouver: _Passenger Vessel Torpedoed in Canadian Waters; One Hundred Twelve Dead; Fisheries Official Saves Twenty-Six_.* Rilla Ford had sent a clipping from the _Globe and Mail_. There had been dozens of letters and telegrams of thanks and congratulation from survivors, private citizens, and government officials. The county school board, the Maritime Presbyterian Synod, and Premier Campbell had all sent cables, as had the Minister of Fisheries and Prime Minister King himself.

Carl had been underwhelmed by the attention. He had patiently answered reporters' questions and gamely shaken hands with neighbors who hailed him in the street, but his mind was on other things. After the first flurry of post, he had barely glanced at the well-wishes, tossing them higgledy-piggledy into a shoebox before returning to his notebooks. He was writing an article, he explained. An important one. Una shook her head, thinking how very like Father he was becoming, when not even a telegram from the Prime Minister could drag his attention away from the all-consuming pursuit of his current project. This morning, Carl had taken the early train to Charlottetown to use the college library, and would stay overnight with Jerry and Nan. Just a night or two, he said, but Una packed for a week.

Foster Booth flipped his nickel into his pocket and hopped on his bicycle, wheeling away from the little gray house on his next assignment. Una turned back to the laundry, pausing only to drop the telegram into the overflowing shoebox on the telephone table, where Carl could ignore it at his leisure. She walked through the sitting room and out the back door, past a sleep-snuffling Muggins sprawled in a puddle of sunshine on the porch, and toward the clothesline where the week's wash billowed in the lazy breeze.

There was no reason to rush. Una folded the towels, then paired and rolled the stockings, tucking them into a basket at her feet. With Carl gone to Town, she had the house to herself and had asked, a little shyly, whether Daniel might like to join her for dinner this evening. He had agreed and kissed her soundly enough when they said goodbye that she wondered whether perhaps they might need a chaperone after all. But he wouldn't be here for several hours and she meant to keep the menu simple. New bread was already cooling in the pantry, and all she had to do was broil the fish and make a salad of new shoots from the garden. Plenty of time.

Una turned back toward the house, carrying her basket first to Carl's bedroom to stock his washstand with fresh towels. The bed was stripped and the mattress propped up against the wall, airing beside the wide-open windows. It was so satisfying to do a deep cleaning in the sweet-smelling spring. Perhaps she should go gather some flowering beebrush for a sachet so that Carl would come home to a room that smelled of the garden. He'd like that.

Una carried her basket back through to the sitting room, pausing to let a scrabbling Mugsy in through the back door. The dog eeled through Una's legs and dashed toward the kitchen, where she began to scratch her sturdy little back on the leg of the telephone table.

"Stop that, Mugsy," Una said, pushing the dog aside with her foot. As she did, her eye fell on the box of telegrams. Today's lay on top, distinguishable from the others only because it was unopened. She wondered briefly who might have sent it, but shrugged away her curiosity. It was Carl's post and he'd open it when he returned. Or not.

Upstairs, Una placed her stockings neatly in her drawer. It was always comforting to see them lined up like that, a sound, warm pair for every day of the week and black cashmere for Sundays. Although, was that hole in the toe . . .

A sudden crash from the kitchen interrupted Una's inspection. She flew down the stairs to investigate, finding the dog rootling in the chaos of the toppled shoebox.

"Muggins!" Una scolded as she stooped to gather up the scattered mail. "Go back outside if you want to dig!"

The little terrier ignored her, nosing through the pile and snuffling at the envelopes. Una shoved her aside, grabbing for the papers under her paws and crawling under the kitchen chairs to retrieve a few that had skidded wide. By the time Una had retrieved them all, Mugsy had vanished, gone off to tend her wounded pride or mourn her lost prize.

Una sighed. She could put the full box back on the table, but the dog would only make a mess again. Instead, she tucked the telegrams under her arm and marched off to Carl's room. The closet was small, but not very crowded, what with half his clothes packed or drying on the line. Una moved the winter boots to make a spot for the shoebox, sliding it all the way back until it touched a flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. The messages would be safe there. Carl might not care about them now, but perhaps he'd want to show them to Gil someday. She pulled the closet shut with a gentle click.

Una was halfway back to the kitchen, thinking of the tea she would make before starting in on the vegetables, when the quiet sough of tearing paper halted her steps. Peering over the top of the sofa, Una beheld Muggins, ringed in soggy scraps of tan paper, cheerfully chewing the shredded envelope she must have nicked from under Una's very nose.

"Give me that!" Una gasped, hurrying around the sofa to extricate the sodden envelope from between the dog's paws. That animal! If she had ruined the telegram from the Prime Minister . . .

Una stopped.

The telegram hung limp in her fingers, half its wrapper torn away and one corner transparent where it was waterlogged. Under the the blue logo of the Maritime Telegram Company, two words stood out against the damp in unevenly typed purple:

TIK READ

A sick thrill plummeted through Una's stomach like a depth charge. Once, when they had still lived at Maywater, she had found a dead rabbit beneath a lilac bush, teeming with ants and maggots. She had looked away from it immediately, obeying some primal instinct that protected her from looking too closely, keeping the image from imprinting too clearly in her memory. This felt that way — a single, muddled impression that registered subconsciously before she had processed it into specificity.

Una looked again, deliberately, allowing the backwards letters to rearrange into coherent words.

DEAR KIT

With trembling fingers, Una eased the remains of the envelope over the dry half of the telegram, careful not to tear it further. The carbon paper was tissue-thin, folded twice, and delicate where it had been gnawed. Una's eye skipped past the alphabet soup of address codes and routing information and picked out the words one at a time.

DEAR KIT ARRIVED SAFE IN ENGLAND STOP

Una squeezed her eyes shut for the briefest of prayers. _Please_.

When she opened them, the telegram was still in her hand.

DEAR KIT ARRIVED SAFE IN ENGLAND STOP SLIGHTLY WOUNDED STOP LETTER TO FOLLOW STOP YOURS TRULY SJB

SJB. Shirley John Blythe. A telegram from Shirley.

From _Shirley_. Shirley was _alive_. Alive and in England. Right now, this very minute.

Alive? How? Where had he been all this time? And now he was in England? She had to tell Carl!

Carl! Carl was in Charlottetown! Might stay there a day or week. But Shirley was _alive_. Carl had to have this telegram! Had to know right away that _Shirley was alive_.

Una's head snapped toward the clock, only to find that the afternoon train had come and gone half an hour ago. There wouldn't be another until tomorrow. There must be another way. Should she call Nan? Ask Jerry to haul Carl away from the library and put him on the phone? Could she do that? Deliver this news over the open party line when anyone might hear? Una wrung her hands. Another way. There must be another way.

The truck! She could drive to Charlottetown! Except that she didn't know how to drive. And she had no gasoline. Gas rations were reserved for people on essential business: farmers, grocers, doctors . . .

 _Doctors_! The word had hardly finished forming before Una stumbled into the kitchen and caught up the telephone.

"Faith!" she fairly shouted when her sister answered.

"Una? Honey, what's wrong?"

"Faith, please, is Jem there?"

"No, he's gone down to the Harbor Head on his rounds."

"Did he take the car?"

"The car? Una, what on earth is the matter? Are you alright?"

"I need to get to Charlottetown, Faith! Right away! I can't wait for the morning train!"

Faith did not answer. Muffled voices told Una that she had put her hand over the mouthpiece and was conferring with someone. When the line brightened again, a man's voice came through.

"Una? This is Dr. Blythe. Is everything alright?"

"Dr. Blythe," Una nearly sobbed. "Can you please drive me to Charlottetown? Right now? Please? I need to find Carl right away."

"Carl? What's wrong?"

Una felt shaky, but pressed her hand to the table for ballast. "Please. There's a telegram for him. A telegram from . . . England."

Dr. Blythe did not respond audibly, though several indistinct expressions of concern carried over the line. When he found his voice, Una recognized the deliberate calm of the trained professional.

"Stay where you are, Una. We'll be there in ten minutes."

*/*/*

Una Meredith had never flown in an airplane. Over the years, Shirley had offered to take her up a few times, but she did not see the appeal, privately agreeing with Susan Baker that _if the Almighty had meant us to fly, He would have provided us with wings_.**

Now, she found herself airborne, suspended for the briefest moment over the back seat of Dr. Blythe's Cadillac V-63 as the car crested a hill at speed. Una braced herself against the backrest, digging her fingers into the leather as they crashed back to earth.

"Gilbert!" Mrs. Blythe exclaimed, clutching at her husband's arm. "Get us there in one piece!"

"It'll be smoother once we get to the paved road," Dr. Blythe answered, teeth gritted as he careened around a bend in the road.

To either side, potato rows blurred in red and green moiré ripples, interspersed with the blooming meadows of incipient summer. Una slipped the edge of the telegram out of her pocket, checking for the dozenth time that it was still real. Faith had promised to call ahead; Jerry and Nan would be waiting for them.

And Carl? Una tried to plan what she might say to him, but her imagination kept falling short, unable to grasp the slippery scene. Breaking good news should be easy, shouldn't it?

Mrs. Blythe turned half way around to offer Una an encouraging smile, gray eyes alight. "Are you alright back there, dear?"

"Yes. Perfectly alright."

Mrs. Blythe nodded toward the sliver of paper, wisps of white hair whipping her face as the rushing wind plucked them from their pins. "It's very nearly a miracle, isn't it?"

Una gave a tight smile. "Yes. A miracle."

This tepid agreement drew a look of concern from Mrs. Blythe. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing. Only . . . I'm _so happy I'm almost afraid_."***

Mrs. Blythe beamed, her temples crinkling with the imprints of a thousand thousand other smiles. "Carl will be, too."

"Just don't tell him the way Rilla told Miss Oliver that Mr. Grant was safe," Dr. Blythe called over the roar of the engine. "Rilla told us she thought she had killed poor Gertrude on the spot!"

"Do you have any suggestions?" Una squeaked.

"Have him sit down, I think. That usually helps. We'll give you some privacy, but I'll be on hand if you need any help."

"We both will," Mrs. Blythe agreed staunchly.

The car went over a great bump, jostling its occupants, but the wheels began to purr more evenly. Una looked ahead to see that the red dirt road had given way to a black ribbon of macadam cutting a stark slash through the lush green hills.

"Not long now," Dr. Blythe assured them.

No, not long. Una tried again to imagine the scene — Carl sitting beside her on the plush sofa in Jerry and Nan's parlor, a tea tray on the table, the telegram in her hand — but the silent tableau kept slipping out of focus. She would have to say something, but what?

Feeling queasy, even on the gentler road, Una clasped her hands in her lap and tried to pray instead.

* * *

The library at Prince of Wales College in Charlottetown was the very latest in libraries. A decade ago, the College had suffered a terrible fire, but a modern building had risen from the ashes, its high ceilings and electric lights complementing the new stacks filled with all the most up-to-date books. Judging by the impressive towers Carl had built around himself on the reading-room table, the biology collection was particularly robust. He had been here for hours, checking citations and copying quotations he wished to refute, the penciled words lifting at the end of each line as if they meant to take flight.

"Carl?"

Carl looked up from his notes, blinking, surprised to find that Jerry had slipped into the seat across from him.

"Oh," Carl said apologetically. "Have a I missed supper?"

"No," Jerry replied in a library whisper. "But you'd better come with me."

"Why?"

"We can talk outside."

Reluctantly, Carl left his books, pausing to tell the librarian that he would return. He shoved his papers into his briefcase and followed Jerry out into the crowded hall. Undergraduates fresh from an English lecture filled the corridor with their shuffling feet and their opinions on Milton, jostling past the Merediths and slowing their progress.

"What's the matter?" Carl asked, cramming his cap onto his head when they had fought their way upstream to the atrium.

"I'm not exactly sure," Jerry said carefully. "I went home for tea and Faith called to say I had to find you at once . . ."

A little shiver of foreboding rippled up Carl's spine. "It's not Sam, is it?"

"No. I don't think so. She didn't say, though. Just said to find you and bring you home before Una arrives."

"Una?"

By now they were hurrying down the steps and across the green college lawn toward King's Square. Carl gripped the handle of his briefcase in fingers gone slippery. He'd just seen Una this morning, and was due home tomorrow or the day after. What could have made her come rushing into town? His first thought had been . . . no, best not name it. Carl had thought he had realized the reality of his loss, but it was impossible to deny that leaping bolt of hope that flashed more quickly than conscious thought. Foolishness. No, it was probably just something to do with the _Snowdrop_. Maybe another Navy investigator had questions or a politician wanted him to stand on a stage somewhere and needed an immediate commitment. There were still a few survivors in the Charlottetown hospital; perhaps one of them had sent a note asking him to visit. Though, in that case, surely Una could have explained over the phone, couldn't she?

King's Square was not large. In a matter of moments, they were mounting the veranda steps to the blue-gabled Victorian with its exuberant wooden lace. Carl followed Jerry to the door and then through it, setting down his briefcase and hanging his cap on the rack in the cool, dim hall. The brisk click of heels on parquet floors announced Nan, her slightly over-bright smile layered over tension that had not been there when Carl had dropped off his valise this morning.

"I have tea in the parlor," she said. "Would you like some lemon cake, Carl? Jerry?"

Carl agreed that lemon cake would be very nice, though he doubted very much that he could eat anything at the moment. He took his seat on the plush sofa across from the gilt-framed portrait, drumming his fingers against his knees.

"So, you're writing an article?" Jerry said with studied lightness as he settled into an armchair.

"Trying to."

"What about?"

"Homosexual birds."

"Really?" Jerry asked, not needing to feign his surprise.

Nan brought in cake and poured tea while Carl explained his argument in broad strokes at first, but running off into various specificities once he got up a head of steam. Jerry and Nan nodded along politely, asking clarifying questions and refreshing their cups at intervals.

". . . so you see that the adult birds don't fit Yerkes's immaturity hypothesis . . ."

The rattle of an automobile parking just outside the parlor window interrupted Carl's explanation. The slamming of doors, footfalls on the veranda, and the doorbell rang, summoning Jerry to the hall. For a moment, Carl was confused. Wouldn't Una have taken the train? But the voices answering Jerry's were familiar enough for Carl to regret even the few bites of lemon cake he had worried down.

"I'll just be a minute," Nan said, going out to greet her parents.

But Nan did not return to the parlor. Carl had only a few moments in which to imagine every awful reason why Dr. and Mrs. Blythe might be here, looking for him. Had the RAF found an eyewitness? A crash site? A grave? If there was a grave, that meant that there was a body, which was honestly more positive proof than he'd hoped for at this point. Carl had told himself he had accepted all this; now he realized it was still going to hurt like hell.

He was not kept in suspense for long. Una came into the room, pulling the glass-paneled French doors closed behind her, shutting out the voices in the hall. She wore the old checked dress she kept for heavy chores like gardening and laundry, and many strands of long, dark hair had escaped the confines of her braid. Carl held his breath as she crossed the room and sat beside him on the sofa. But when he met his sister's eye, she looked back at him with the deep, blue calm of a placid pool on a sweltering day. There was no warning there, only a shining satisfaction too gentle to be called triumph.

She drew a mangled tan envelope from her pocket and held it out to him. "This came for you," she said steadily. "I thought you should have it right away."

Carl did not reach for the telegram. Could not. Must.

"It's alright," Una murmured, smiling tremulously. "Take it."

The paper whispered when Carl drew it from the envelope, crackled when he unfolded it, crumpled when he gripped it in a convulsing hand.

He read it over several times, but the words seemed to skim off the surface of his brain like flat stones expertly skipped across the surface of the Glen Pond. When one finally sank, air flooded back into Carl's lungs.

 _"Shirley—is—living," he said, as if the words were torn out of him._ ***

"Yes," Una said, tears barely dammed. "Yes, he is."

It was impossible to know whether to laugh or weep, but there was no need to choose. When Jerry came to check on them, Carl and Una were wrapped together, tearstained and hiccuping in the aftermath of their hilarity.

*/*/*

Later, after Nan had filled them all with strong tea and as much lemon cake as anyone could manage under the circumstances, Carl climbed into the back of the Cadillac with Una. Jerry and Nan had offered to put all of them up for the night, but Carl had refused politely but firmly. He wanted to sleep in his own bed.

The sun was low, but not yet sleeping, bathing the clouds in rose and gold and gilding the distant fir-clad hills. Potato tops and meadow grass alike rustled in the breeze, whispering their congratulations as the Cadillac rolled past.

"I've read," Dr. Blythe said, never taking his eyes off the road, "that the RAF doesn't allow airmen to fly over enemy territory if they've evaded before. Too much of an intelligence risk. They reassign them."

"Yes," Carl said, still a bit dazed. "Yes, I've heard that, too."

"I do hope they'll send Shirley home on leave before they post him anywhere else," said Mrs. Blythe. "I remember when Jem . . . well . . . he needed some time to rest and re-adjust, didn't he?"

Something sloshed in Carl's gut. He remembered Jem too, gaunt and limping, even half a year after he had escaped from Germany, and never quite the merry prankster he had once been. _Slightly wounded_. That could mean anything.

Something nudged Carl's hand and he looked down to see Una's slim fingers beside his on the leather seat. He took them and squeezed gratefully.

The Cadillac hummed along toward home at a gentle pace, the soft whir of the engine not quite loud enough to mask the music of the June night. As dusk deepened along the shore road, the crickets woke, adding their songs in a chirping chorus that swelled over the sighing grasses and the distant rolling of the sea. The moon, just a day past full, rose as they approached Four Winds. Carl inclined his face toward it, fancying that he could feel its beams, cool and soothing and predictable. There was a letter out there, perhaps even now crossing the ocean under this same luminous moon, and, perhaps, Shirley following behind.

 _He will have changed,_ said the little voice. _So have you._

It was certainly true. But whatever had happened and whatever would happen next, there was still this moment. Carl took charge of his breathing, inhaling the blossoming breath of summer, and reminded himself to be where he was. This night, he was happy.

* * *

"Oh, no!" Una gasped, standing transfixed in the kitchen.

"What?" Carl asked, rushing to her side.

There was a pile of unchopped vegetables on the table and, Una knew, an uncooked fish in the icebox. Supper. Daniel must have come hours ago, found the house dark, gone home disappointed.

Una turned to Carl, whey-faced. "I was supposed to make supper for Daniel. I . . . I forgot completely."

She was not so far gone in her distress that she did not notice Carl's difficulty in swallowing his laughter as he mock-scolded her. "Una Meredith! You were going to have a man over! In the evening!"

"Well," Una said, cheeks regaining spots of color, "yes. Yes I was."

"Then I suppose you'd have to get married sooner rather than later, wouldn't you?"

Una swatted at her brother, but was smiling nearly as broadly as he was.

"What are you going to wear to your wedding?" Carl grinned, putting the table between them as a bulwark. "Do you mean to wear mother's dress?"

"I hadn't given it much thought," Una replied, only half-truthfully. It was honest enough to say that she had not spent much time imagining her attire, though there was a new-made gold ring in a box on her bookshelf upstairs beside the Stopes.

"You should call him."

"It's late."

"I don't think he'll mind."

Was this excitement? Why did it feel so much like fear?

Carl took an exaggerated step toward the telephone table. "I'm going to ring over right now . . . "

"No," Una said, intercepting him. "No, I'll call."

"And I will disappear," Carl said, stretching extravagantly. "I'm feeling awfully tired."

"Your bed isn't made up."

"I can take care of it. Honestly, Una, you're going to have to let me start taking care of myself. I'll need to do all this on my own soon enough."

Una shook her head fondly. It wouldn't hurt to give him a few lessons around the washtub, though the very thought of placing her sunshine yellow kitchen under Carl's inexpert command was enough to make her shudder. But it would be his and she would have other things on her mind.

"Sheets in the linen closet?" Carl asked. "I'll just go get them and make up the bed. Then, I intend to fall directly into a very deep sleep. Absolutely imperturbable. Come on, Mugsy."

They were gone in a moment, up the stairs to the linen closet and then back down into the bedroom. The door snapped shut, leaving the empty house to Una, to make of it what she would.

The telephone was smooth and cool in her hand. A few moments of hollow dread, a few murmured words, and Una was standing on the front porch in the cool June moonlight, listening for Jenny. A distant hum at first, growing stronger until it drowned out the breeze and the insects, stopping only when Daniel brought it to a halt on her doorstep. He had thrown a jacket over candy-striped pajamas, but was still wearing carpet slippers.

Una felt oddly calm, almost as if she were floating through a dream. Did dreams feature expectant suitors tripping on the stairs, resolving the question of when to embrace by stumbling into their beloved's arms?

"Sorry," Daniel said, breathless.

"I'm sorry about supper."

"Something happened?"

"Yes. I'll tell you all about it. But first . . ."

Una kissed him sweetly, then drew back far enough to take the ring from her pocket.

"I bought a new one," she said, holding it up to glint in the moonlight. "Do you want to see whether it fits?"

It did, and so did they.

* * *

Notes:

*Canadian newspapers routinely censored reports of torpedo attacks or reported them vaguely (for example, saying that an event happened near "an eastern port" rather than naming the city). However, the sinking of the SS _Caribou_ received major media attention. Within days of the sinking, the newspaper coverage was comprehensive, with banner headlines, lists of casualties, and survivor accounts. For more, check out the front page of the _Charlottetown Guardian_ for October 17, 1942 at islandnewspapers dot ca.

Bonus on that same front page: the story about Flt. Lt. J. Angus MacLean, RCAF, of Lewis, PEI, a bomber pilot who bailed out over occupied Holland in June 1942 and spent the next three months on the run. He evaded capture and was smuggled out of Europe via Andrée de Jongh's Comet line. After the war, MacLean returned home to Canada and had a successful career as a politician, serving as an MP and Premier of PEI. He was also the Minister of Fisheries from 1957-1963, so if Carl didn't get fired in the purges of gay Canadian civil servants in the 1950s and 1960s, MacLean would have been his boss.

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 26: "Susan Has a Proposal of Marriage"

*** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 19: "They Shall Not Pass"

Apologies for the Psychic Dog. But we already had an Unexpected Inheritance and Significant Fruit Trees so it's a real tour of LMM tropes around here.


	71. The Frailest Leaves

(Updated for section breaks.)

* * *

 **The Frailest Leaves**

* * *

July 1942

* * *

 _Here the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting,_  
 _Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them,_  
 _And yet they expose me more than all my other poems._

\- Walt Whitman

* * *

It was only three miles from the train station to the little gray house halfway between the Glen and Lowbridge. Shirley didn't mind the walk. In fact, he was glad of it. Months without much physical activity had left him feeling sluggish, and two weeks at sea had not helped. Now, he had red Island dirt under his feet and salt air in his lungs and the warmth of a high summer sun cheering him on to his destination.

There had not been many people on the platform when the afternoon train rolled into Glen St. Mary, but those few had stared unabashedly at the tall man kitted out in crisp RAF blue with Wing Commander's stripes on his sleeves and rather more bars on his breast than there had once been. Shirley paid them little mind, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder and heading for home. He touched his hat to a startled Mrs. Milgrave and nodded to the gobsmacked telegram boy who skidded to a stop on his bicycle near Jim Carter's apple orchard. After that, he saw no one and was not sorry.

 _The day was beautiful and the way was beautiful_.* Shirley might have enjoyed the walk more if he were surer of his welcome at the end of it. No, that wasn't true. The greeting would be alright. It was the next part that had him quaking in his new boots. Better to confess all right away and let the chips fall, rather than delay. And afterward . . . well, that was up to Carl, wasn't it? He would stay or go as Carl decreed, but he would not lie and he would not wait.

When Shirley descended into a little valley that marked the last half mile, he felt his resolve begin to crack. Carl was up there, ahead, just a few minutes away. He had called from Kingsport, had said hello and yes I'm safe, I'll be home soon, but now he was here and his nerves jangled with every step. Did he really have to tell Carl what had happened? No, _what he'd done_. It hadn't been an accident.

Shirley touched the pocket of his tunic to make sure that his letter was still there. He had been at sea two weeks and had used a whole box of paper drafting and re-drafting it, burning every unsatisfactory version. The finished document had no value as intelligence — no place names, no dates, no real names except the most important one, and that only a nickname after all. But it was the truth, the whole truth, without evasion or hesitation, without having to worry that he would lose his nerve or struggle to find the words. Carl deserved nothing less.

Now there was only one last bend in the road. Just another minute and he would come to the little gray house at the end of this very long journey. It was right there, past the blackberry hedge . . .

Shirley turned the corner, but there was no little gray house. There was, however, a little yellow house, jaunty paint brilliant against the blue sky and nearly finished. High on a ladder, Carl swept his brush over one clapboard and then another, stretching to brighten every drab inch.

Shirley set his duffel down in the dust and shaded his eyes. For a few moments, he only watched, mesmerized by the spreading warmth of the paint, the gentle motion of Carl's arm, the sunlight caught in the bright aura of his hair. When Carl reached for the cloth hanging from the pocket of his overalls and went to dab his face, Shirley knew he must say _something_.

"I like the yellow," he called, a little hoarsely.

On the ladder, Carl gave an inarticulate yelp, wobbling as he turned toward the road. Paint and brush toppled, splashing against the wall as they dropped into the flowerbeds. Carl descended only slightly less precipitously, skipping the last several rungs and leaping to the ground.

Shirley met him halfway across the lawn. They crashed together with such force that they might have bounced back again if they were not so tightly clasped. The arms around Shirley's neck were strong and sun-warmed and so very familiar. Face buried in Carl's hair, Shirley gasped, inhaling the scent of good, clean sweat and green things that grew on the shore. He could not decipher the muffled sounds coming from the vicinity of his own shoulder, which could have been sobs or chuckles or something repeated softly, over and over. He did not draw away until startled by the joyful barks of a small, wire-haired dog racing around the corner of the little yellow house. Before Shirley could even crouch, Muggins had _flung herself against him, trying to climb his legs and writhing in an ecstasy that seemed as if it must tear her little body in pieces_.** Shirley gathered her into his arms, grinning as she licked his cheek in a _frenzy of welcome_.

"Hello to you, too," he said, nuzzling the dog.

Carl knuckled his eye, leaving a stripe of paint across his temple. He took half a step back to get a proper look at Shirley and gasped. "Your uniform!"

"What?"

"The paint!" Carl swiped at the fresh stains with a smeary hand. "Oh, it's _ruined_!"

This was perfectly true; the crisp blue wool of Shirley's new dress tunic was smudged with streaks from shoulder to waist, flashes of bright yellow marking every place they had pressed themselves together.

Shirley gave an unbelieving little laugh. "It doesn't matter!"

"Of course it does!" Carl sniffled. "I don't know the first thing about laundry."

It was all so absurdly trivial that Shirley laughed, stopping only when Carl kissed him, right there in the sunshine between the little yellow house and the Lowbridge Road. Anyone might have driven by and seen them, but Shirley didn't care any more than he cared about the spoiled uniform. Carl's arms were around him, his lips receding in uncontrollable smiles that only widened when they were pushed apart by a protesting Muggins. Shirley placed the dog on the ground and took up right where he left off, kissing Carl long and longer until they were both breathless.

"We didn't . . . expect you . . . til tomorrow," Carl gulped, fingers firmly embedded in Shirley's lapels.

"I hitched a ride. Some of the Summerside boys stopped at Kingsport to refuel and they let me tag along."

"Your parents . . . they're planning a dinner for you . . . tomorrow . . ."

"Well then I'll see them tomorrow, won't I?"

Carl pulled Shirley in and delivered one last declaratory kiss before disentangling his hands.

"Come inside," he said, leading the way.

If the exterior of the house had changed, the interior had as well. The sunny little kitchen was still cheerful, with Cecilia Meredith's wedding china in the hutch and Una' careful stitches on the framed needlework over the door, but the drainer was piled with drip-drying pots and pans and the table was cluttered with papers, bits of pocket-refuse, and several unwashed coffee cups.

"Where's Una?" Shirley asked mildly.

Carl grinned, scooping the papers into a single untidy stack. "At Ingleside. Weddings require a lot of sewing, I gather."

Shirley had had that news from Di, but it was still slightly startling to think of Una getting married. He was glad, of course, but there had been so many changes since he'd been away. On one hand, it was good to know that the world went on spinning without him, that the people he loved would have been safe and happy even if he had never gotten out of France. On the other, there was an awful lot to keep up with.

"So she won't live here anymore?"

"Doesn't," Carl said, dumping the dirty dishes into the sink. "Most of her things are already at the rectory. She's been up at Ingleside all week and will stay there until the wedding."

The table was clear enough for Carl to set out two glasses of cool water. Muggins would not be parted from Shirley even for a drink, so Carl placed her bowl beside Shirley's chair. He offered food, but Shirley wouldn't have been able to eat anything even if he had been hungry.

Shirley took his customary place at the table. He swiped the condensation from his glass with the thumb of his injured hand, watching the droplets merge and go running down the side. The other hand went to the pocket of his tunic to touch the corner of the letter. Now if he could only work up the courage to hand it over.

Carl came to the table, but surprised Shirley by sitting to his left. They had long ago fallen into the pattern of Shirley always sitting on Carl's sighted side, with the awkward exception of the few times Carl had driven the truck. It was disquieting to be on the wrong side now.

After an excruciating moment of perfect silence, Carl nodded at Shirley's water glass.

"You have a tic."

"A tick?"

"A tic. When you rub your thumb on a cup like that, it means you have something to say and aren't saying it."

"Does it?" Shirley looked at the cup in his hand, perplexed. "Since when?"

"Since always. It's usually the teacups. You trace the pattern."

Shirley stopped immediately, laying his hand flat on the table. It looked strange like that, splayed against the white enamel, the gnarled scar still fresh and angry.

"May I?" Carl asked gently.

Shirley nodded, a little ripple of relief accompanying the tender touch. Carl's own fingers explored the place where Shirley's had been, tracing along the edge without applying any pressure.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," Shirley said, grateful to be speaking of concrete matters. "Not much anyway. The middle finger gives me some trouble. The doctors in England said that they might be able to help that with a small surgery, but I didn't want to delay."

Carl took the wounded hand between his own and brought it to his lips, the kiss so light that Shirley saw it rather than feeling it. He closed his eyes, not wanting to say what he knew he must. It was wonderful to see Carl, to be welcomed and kissed and caressed, but Shirley had taken enough already. It would have been so easy to go on like this, at least for a little while, pretending that the wound was all that had happened in France. But it wasn't honest and it wasn't fair.

 _Here goes._

"I suppose you'll want to know what happened over there," Shirley said faintly.

Carl met him with a _beautiful, fearless blue eye_.*** "You don't have to tell me. That is, you can if you want to, but you don't have to. Not now, not ever."

Shirley tightened his grip on Carl's hand, squeezing until the middle finger throbbed. The other hand went to his pocket and placed the letter on the table between them.

"I need to tell you. I wrote it all down so I could be sure of getting through it."

"You wrote?" Carl asked, surprised.

"Didn't you ask for more honest letters?" Shirley said, falling well short of a smile.

Carl slid the letter back across the table. "I don't need to read that."

"I need you to," Shirley said miserably. "Please."

"Can it wait? You haven't even unpacked yet."

"No, it can't."

If Carl had declined once more, Shirley might not have been able to maintain his resolve. He might have snatched the letter from the table and ripped it to pieces. Burned it. Ate it. But the die was cast.

Never had the Meredith expressiveness twisted Shirley's gut quite so acutely. Carl was a queasy shade of green as he unfolded the pages, visibly surprised that there were so many of them. Shirley watched closely as he nodded his way through the first two, wincing occasionally. Then, somewhere around the middle of the third page, Carl's sickly pallor curdled to a dead chalk-white. He looked up from the page, gaping at Shirley.

"Y-you saw . . . _Wilkie_?"

Oh, there was so much more. Carl hadn't even gotten to page five yet.

When he did, he did not pause. He only began breathing faster, waxen skin going red in uneven patches. About three quarters of the way down the page, his eye fluttered shut and stayed closed.

"Kit . . ."

Carl stood abruptly, toppling his chair.

"I need to take a walk."

"Can I come?"

" _No_."

The back door crashed open, then shut again, leaving Shirley at the table, watching droplets form on his glass, falling silently and leaving little tracks behind them.

* * *

The stream below Pelham's Pond was a soothing place, murmuring along between lush ferns and shaded by a generous canopy of jewel-bright leaves. It was the sort of place where Carl usually walked reverently, careful not to startle the inhabitants nor trample the foliage.

At the moment, he did not care. Blundering along through the underbrush, Carl stopped only when the stream presented a barrier. He slumped onto a flat rock at the center of a shoreside clearing, still breathing in labored puffs, and squeezed his eye shut.

 _Christ._

A month ago, he would have struck any bargain to have Shirley back. But this?

 _Damn._

No matter how many disasters Carl imagined, no matter how many shadows he feared, Shirley had an undeniable talent for walloping him from unexpected angles. In other circumstances, it would be almost funny. What was the use fretting yourself to death when he'd manufacture some catastrophe far beyond the scope of your feeble imagination?

 _Wilkie?_

It had been years. Decades, really. A memory. Odd to think that Wilkie Marshall still existed in the real world. Well, Shirley hadn't forgotten him, that was for damn sure, and apparently Wilkie hadn't forgotten about Shirley either. Was this some sort of vicious joke?

The letter was still in Carl's hand, a mess now, crumpled and soggy in his fist. He smoothed it against his knee, trying to get the words to stay still long enough for him to re-read them.

 _On the night of the eclipse, the resistance fighters took me to a new place. They said they had found someone who would swear that I wasn't a spy, though I couldn't imagine who it could be. I think you will be as surprised as I was when I tell you that the person who vouched for me was Wilkie. He took me home and hid me and fed me and found someone who could get me home . . ._

Carl blinked hard against a welling tear.

 _Wilkie saved him._

Well, there was a real monkey's paw wish for you. Shirley was alive and mostly healthy and sitting at his kitchen table right this very minute, and Carl couldn't even stand to look at him. It had been so much easier to cherish him safely dead.

The mossy rock was cool under Carl's legs. Sitting, his breath was coming back to him, his heart slowing as the first wave of shock ebbed. For a while, he only sat, letting the quiet, green place absorb him until the bubbling in his ears was only the stream and not his own pulse.

There are moments when things change, when a bright line divides everything into _before_ and _after_. Carl had thought that that moment had come and gone with the eclipse and its telegram, but he had been mistaken. _This_ was the inflection point. It was not the inscrutable machinations of fate or chance or Providence, but rather a decision that he would make for himself. He could not control the world or the war or Shirley, but he could decide for himself how he would react to those things. Whatever he did next would shape the whole direction of his future life and Carl took a moment to consider it.

It was very strange to sit in the middle of a clearing, paths leading off in many possible directions, each of them equally viable. Motionless at the center of several huge emotions, Carl focused on each in turn, trying them on like hats to see how they fit.

 _Enraged_ was one. How galling to know that Shirley had been tucked up cozy in Wilkie Marshall's bed while Carl had been prostrate with grief. _Selfish son of a bitch_. How could Shirley betray him like this?

 _Vindictive_ was a possibility. Follow fury far enough and there was a little branch that led to scorched-earth ruination. It would be so easy to weaponize humiliation and disgrace, to turn it back on Shirley in a murderous volley, to make him sorry he'd ever loved anyone at all. Just one anonymous letter to the Air Staff and Shirley would be lucky to get away with a dishonorable discharge. _No. No no no no no._ Maybe wrath was justified, but that was a very ugly path, slippery and treacherous with quicksand at the bottom.

 _Wounded_ was a an easier avenue, broad and lazy and blameless. Didn't they belong to one another? _How could you do this to me?_ Much more comfortable to make Shirley suffer under the smothering righteousness of doe-eyed reproach. But perhaps not very kind, nor very dignified.

 _Curious?_ That was unexpected, but it was definitely there, a faint but beckoning track strewn with vines and nettles. A few written pages were a start, but they could hardly get at the truth. And Shirley was talking. Or writing, rather, but communicating openly and honestly and much, much more than half. _You said you wanted more honest letters_. That was no trail for novices, but it might lead to worthwhile places.

 _Sympathetic_ , damn it. It was awfully hard to stand on outrage when compassion was tugging gently in the opposite direction. It wasn't right for Shirley to make any demands on Carl's kindness, but the truth was that he hadn't. He hadn't asked for anything at all except a chance to tell the truth. Somewhere out there, Shirley was feeling wretched right now. Was it weak to care?

And so what if it was? Why should strength be measured in anger and outrage, in standing on one's rights and demanding what was due? Let someone get away with treating you badly and you're a doormat. Carl would be perfectly justified in tossing Shirley out on his ear and salting the ground where he had once stood.

And then what?

 _He loved Shirley. Had always loved him. Could no more cast him out of his life without agony than he could have cut off his right hand and cast it from him._ ****

The thought struck Carl funny. Can't even make an analogy without imagining them as mirror images. All alone in the clearing, Carl gave a begrudging little chuckle. He felt drained and shaky, but essentially calm. It was a nasty shock to get a slap instead of a kiss, but certainly others had weathered similar seas.

 _Like Nellie._

That thought stopped him cold. Yes, like Nellie. Had she felt like this that day in the park? A version of it, perhaps. But no, Carl had never promised Nellie anything. He hadn't done anything wrong and however disappointed she might have been, it wasn't his fault. No, this was nothing like Nellie. This was more like . . . Edith Marckworth.

 _Christ._

There had been a day like this one, when Edith Marckworth's husband had sat her down and told her something at the edge of plausibility. Did she rage at him? Cry? She could have ruined Anthony, demolished his reputation and his profession, and people would have called it justice. But she hadn't. What Anthony had done wasn't right and it wasn't fair, but he had told Edith the truth and she had . . . what? What had she done?

She had found a vase for the flowers Carl brought to her house. She had presided over a happy supper table. She had gone on loving Anthony and spent the night of the eclipse with her own gentleman friend. She'd come to the ferry terminal to bid Carl farewell, safe journey, probably thinking that her husband loved him. Maybe being right.

 _We go on forgiving each other and being as generous as we can. I think that's really what it means to love someone — helping them find their happiness without jealousy and finding your joy in theirs._

That had sounded impossible then and maybe it still did now. But it was something to think on, at least.

Carl shivered. He had lost any sense of time during his wild flight, but it was undeniably dimmer in the clearing than it had been. Dusk brought with it the luminous pulses of fireflies, just a few at first, then more and more until the clearing glowed with elusive scraps of yellow light. One wandered close, and Carl put out a hand and let it land on his paint-stained fingers. The tiny beetle gleamed in gentle throbs like a heartbeat at peace. When it unsheathed its black lace wings and flew away, Carl climbed down from the rock and followed the path that would lead him home.

*/*/*

The little yellow house was dark and empty, so Carl rode his bicycle five miles through the moonlit night, nearly all the way to Mowbray Narrows. He turned at the sign that read _Blythe Aviation_ and let himself into the office, climbing the stairs toward the sliver of light showing under the apartment door.

Carl waited a long time after knocking and was about to try again when the door swung inward to reveal a weary Shirley. He had changed out of his uniform and into a pair of old, soft civilian pants that hung from the points of his hips. The RAF tunic had concealed sharp collarbones and several new scars, but his undershirt did not. A deep furrow marring one shoulder looked like a wound he had not bothered to mention and there was a small nick above his heart, still pink and shiny.

Carl cleared his throat. "Can I come in?"

Shirley stepped aside and Carl crossed the threshold into the apartment. It looked much as it had the last time he had checked in on things: featureless white walls, the furniture shrouded with dropcloths, the bed stripped and bare. Other than Mugsy hopping down from the mattress, the only things out of place were Shirley's duffel, still packed, and half a dozen cigarettes set out on the table in a neat row. The blue uniform was spread on the counter beside the kitchen sink, though any efforts to scrape the paint off had not been notably successful.

"I thought you'd come here," Carl said.

"The next train's not til tomorrow."

"You'll go back to Kingsport?"

"Does it matter?"

There was no impassive mask, just a dull exhaustion that flattened his voice and rounded his shoulders. Jarring to see him stooped like that. It would have been easy to fall into the trap of comforting him, but Carl was resolute.

"Why did you tell me this?" Carl asked, pulling the letter from his pocket and dropping it on the table, scattering the cigarettes. "You could have just said nothing and I never would have known."

"I don't want to hide from you, Carl."

"Since when?"

"Since now."

Despite his gentler intentions, Carl could feel anger taking charge, sharpening his tone, adding a little flourish when he threw up his hands. "I don't know what you want from me, Shirley. Am I just supposed to forgive you? Pretend it doesn't matter?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry for hurting you."

"Is that all?"

"No," Shirley muttered. "I'm sorry for not being more honest with you before, and for making decisions without you. I was wrong and I'm sorry."

"You should be."

It would have been easier if he had fought back. If he had tried to justify his actions, Carl might have had the satisfaction of shouting at him or arguing a point or enumerating his many sins. That would have felt good.

Instead, Shirley said, "Is it alright if I sit down?"

He did not move toward any seat, waiting on Carl's consent with such desolate submission that Carl felt a cad for denying him a chair, and then annoyed that Shirley should corner him into any role but righteous victim.

When he shrugged his permission, Shirley sagged into one of the kitchen chairs. Muggins wriggled her way under the table to take her place atop his feet, reminding Carl that Shirley must have walked all the way here from the house, probably carrying the dog. He had walked from the station before that, and taken a train and an airplane and an oceanliner, all to come home as soon as possible, not waiting for the doctors in England to fix his hand. Sitting wasn't a ploy for sympathy; he was just worn out.

Carl crossed his arms across his chest to bolster his resolve. "To what do I owe this confessional turn?"

Shirley toyed with one of the cigarettes, worrying the edge of the paper with a thumbnail. "Gil's been asking me for advice. I couldn't very well tell him to talk things over with Rose and not do the same myself."

" _You're_ giving relationship advice?" Carl asked, the corner of his mouth twisting ungovernably.

"Like a jailhouse lawyer."

It was not much of a joke, but Carl relaxed a fraction.

"Well, you're not wrong," he sighed. "I've always wished you'd talk to me more."

"I should have all along. I'm sorry I didn't."

Whatever had happened in the past, Shirley was talking now and if he meant to go on, Carl figured he might as well sit down. Stern and looming had never been his way, and if he had to ride to battle, he'd do it on his own mount.

"You've certainly picked a hell of a time to see the light," he said, sliding into the chair across from Shirley.

If Carl had hoped he might draw out a smile, he was disappointed. There was none of the customary sparkle of humor in the deep brown eyes.

"I wasn't going to lie to you about that, Carl. No more half-truths."

"Really?"

"Really."

Was he in earnest? The whole truth? There was an easy way to check, if Carl was sure he wanted to hear confirmation of something he had known all along.

"In that case, can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Do you love Wilkie?"

After a heartbeat that might have been a geologic age, Shirley murmured, "Would it be so terrible if I said yes?"

Would it? Was a love shared a love halved? It was tempting to say _yes_ , that Shirley belonged to him and him alone, to be hoarded and guarded against thieves who would deplete their little store. But was it true? Did Carl's own loving ties diminish what he felt for Shirley? Even if he allowed his friendship with Anthony to blossom, to see where it might lead, would that be a loss? No, that was absurd. Anthony was a completely different person, precious in his own particular way. Their relationship had only ever helped nurture and encourage them both . . .

 _Oh._

"I suppose not," Carl said, surprising himself with his own equanimity. "I never really understood why you didn't follow Wilkie to Berlin in the first place."

"Neither did he. Not until Leo."

"Who's Leo?"

Shirley rubbed his hands over his face hard enough to restore a little color to his cheeks. "I guess you didn't read to the end?"

"I got distracted in the middle."

Even as he said it, Carl was already reaching for the letter. He skipped to page six, scanning until he found the name and began to read. He could feel his face softening with every line, and there were plenty of them. By the time he reached the London apartment, Carl was swallowing hard against a tight throat.

 _Maybe it's stupid, but I'm going to go on believing that Leo's alive and that he'll show up some day out of the clear blue and make Wilkie sorry he ever doubted. I think maybe that's why Wilkie risked so much to get me home to you, not for my own sake or yours, but so that he could go on believing it, too._

 _I won't make excuses, Kit. I made my choices and if you can't forgive me, I don't blame you in the least. If these are the last things I ever get to say to you, I'll end by saying that I love you and that I'm sorry for not living up to that better. You've only ever been joy to me and I have repaid you with trouble and heartache. I was wrong to think that you needed protecting. I'm sorry for not being more honest with you and for not trusting you with my own weaknesses. I don't know what I could do to make amends, but I owe you the whole truth, not just half. I'm sorry I didn't realize that sooner._

 _Love always,_

 _Shirley_

When he got to the end, Carl stared at the paper a while, the words swimming before him in a misty haze. By rights, he should not forgive, for the sake of his own pride. _But pride is cold company and that there is no gainsaying_.*****

"Where will you go?" Carl croaked.

"To Kingsport," Shirley said dismally. "I'll need to have the operation on my hand. Then back to active duty, I suppose."

"They'll take you back?"

"Yes. Not for overseas duty. But I wrote to McMullen — he's on the Air Staff now — and I asked . . . well, I suppose it doesn't matter."

"What did you ask?"

Shirley shifted in the chair, crumbling tobacco between his fingers. "Whether . . . whether there were any postings open at RCAF Summerside. We talked about it once, when he wanted me to take a command. And I thought maybe as a sort of compromise . . ."

He trailed off miserably, reducing the innocent cigarette to a pile of dust on the table.

Carl contemplated the mess. When he had been in the army, he had considered the loss of an eye a small price to pay for a ticket home. He couldn't understand Shirley not wanting to rest on his laurels, but he could try.

"You really love the Air Force, don't you?"

Shirley seemed surprised, but he answered readily enough. "Yes. I do."

"And you want to go on serving?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"There's still so much work to do," Shirley sighed. "I can't just quit when they're all still over there fighting and I can help, even just a little. And also . . . I _like_ the Air Force. I like having a job and a routine and being useful. And Summerside isn't just an SFTS, it's the No. 1 General Reconnaissance School. They teach, but they also fly combat patrols over the Gulf and the Eastern Atlantic, looking for . . ."

"U-Boats," Carl finished, unable to suppress a small smile. "So even if I never want to see you again, you're still going to be looking over my shoulder?"

"No," Shirley grimaced. "I didn't mean . . . that is, _I_ wouldn't be flying combat patrols. But it's _important_. We can't have _U-Boats_ in the _Gulf_. It's _unacceptable_."

"I quite agree," Carl said mildly.

"But I don't have to go to Summerside. There are plenty of SFTSes open now, and they all need staff, especially out west. Maybe they'll send me to Saskatchewan. Or Alberta."

Carl reached across the table and laid his hand over Shirley's, not shying away when Shirley flinched. "I'd miss you if you were in Alberta."

Voluble a moment before, Shirley shut off like a tap, staring across the table in stiff silence.

"What if you didn't go to Kingsport?" Carl murmured. "What if you stayed here. I mean, not _here_ ; this place is awful and I think you should burn it to the ground. But if you came home with me? You could wait to hear about Summerside. See Una get married."

Four times. The first had been the night before Queen's, the second in Paris, and the third in the old tumbledown boarding house in Kingsport, when Carl had asked Shirley to follow him home. Now he had seen that expression four times and Carl hoped never, ever to see it again.

Carl did not let go of Shirley's hand when he rose from his chair, nor when he bent to plant a gentle kiss on the brown forehead, twisted in a knot of consternation.

"You don't mean it," Shirley said blankly.

"It's been a very long day," Carl said carefully, "and it's an awfully long walk back. I don't know whether the truck will start, but we can give it a try. If you're willing, I'd like to take you home."

Carl was not sure what he had expected, perhaps a smile or a kiss. He had not expected Shirley to collapse like a falling tree, burying his face in Carl's overalls and sobbing like a child. Carl had never seen him cry like this, _never_ , not even when Susan died. Perhaps she had seen him this way, when some long-ago hurt had been too big to keep bottled up, had patted his hair and whispered soothing things, though it was hard to imagine Shirley bawling with such abandon even in his tender years. He cried like a breached dam, on and on until Carl began to worry he might injure himself and Muggins began to howl along in agitated sympathy.

When the wracking sobs began to diminish into shudders, Carl untucked the tail of his own shirt.

"Do you feel better?" he asked, swabbing Shirley's face.

"I . . . feel . . . _awful_."

Carl grinned and kissed him firmly on a salty, swollen cheek. "Then let's get you home."

* * *

Notes:

* _Anne of the Island_ , Chapter 41: "Love Takes Up the Glass of Time"

** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 32: "Word From Jem"

***Paraphrased, _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 35: "Rilla-My-Rilla"

**** _Anne of the Island_ , Chapter 40: "A Book of Revelation"

***** _"He called me 'Mother Susan,'" [Susan] was thinking. "Well, all our men folk have gone now—Jem and Walter and Shirley and Jerry and Carl. And none of them had to be driven to it. So we have a right to be proud. But pride—" Susan sighed bitterly—"pride is cold company and that there is no gainsaying."_ _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 25: "Shirley Goes"

One more chapter and an epilogue.

Thanks to MrsVonTrapp for the encouragement to finish, and to samanthavimes for everything else.


	72. Any Number of Happy Endings

**Any Number of Happy Endings**

* * *

 _But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid_

Micah 4:4

* * *

"How much longer do I have to do this?" Carl moaned, letting the whisk fall still in his hand.

"You've barely started," Shirley said, peering into the bowl. "Those egg whites are still liquid; you need them stiff enough that you can turn the bowl upside down over your head without losing any."

Carl appeared to think that Shirley was putting him on, but nevertheless applied himself to the whisking. At his feet, Muggins waggled in hopeful expectation of disaster, but Carl hugged the bowl tight to his apron and did not lose a drop. Shirley didn't bother to hide his smile. He wasn't sure he agreed with Susan that it was easier to bake a wedding cake when you had help, but it was certainly more entertaining.

After a serious campaign of cleaning and reorganization, the cheery little kitchen had been brought to heel, the chaos of the present undertaking confined to the enamel-top table. The pantry was stocked with provisions, the stove was freshly blacked, and the back porch was so heavily laden with stacked maple and oak that Carl wouldn't have to touch an axe for the rest of the year. Summerside was only a short ride away, but Shirley would want to establish command and gain the trust of his officers these first few months. He might not be home til Christmas.

For now, the only snowfall was in the big ceramic mixing bowl, sifted flour drifting into a gentle hill as Shirley coaxed it through the sieve. It was a simple task, conducive to watching Carl wrestle with the eggs. It was hard to say who was winning.

"I don't think this is working" Carl said, frowning at the minimal results of his continued efforts.

"You're stirring too much," Shirley explained. "It's more of a flicking motion. And don't use your whole arm. Just the wrist."

"What?"

Shirley set down the flour and stepped over Muggins.

"Tuck your elbow in," he instructed, standing behind Carl and reaching around to reposition his arm. "Then stir from the wrist. You need to beat air into the eggs so they act as a leavening agent."

Carl leaned back enough that Shirley could feel a mild chuckle ripple through his chest. "They make the cake funnier?"

"No, they make it rise."

"Do they?"

Laughter was catching after all, and Shirley dropped a quick kiss on top of the golden-brown head before stepping away.

"We have an awful lot of cake to make," he said, grinning as he began to rummage through the jumbled ingredients.

This morning, Elliott Douglas had delivered a box of special-ordered groceries, dutifully repeating his mother's pronouncements on the proper way to prepare dried cherries. Shirley ignored him politely and tipped him well, knowing that _good-hearted, sharp-tongued_ Mary had talked half the village into donating teaspoons of their rationed sugar toward this very cake.* There was a small sackful of it now, hiding behind the flour and the paper-wrapped block of butter. Shirley extricated it with care and began to spoon the precious stuff into the bowl of a gilt-rimmed teacup festooned with pink rosebuds.

"Did you steal that from Ingleside?" Carl asked, jutting his chin toward the cup.

"Yes."

"Why? We have plenty of teacups."

"But we don't have _this_ teacup," Shirley said, joggling it to even out the mounded sugar. "It's the sort of recipe that has to be made just exactly the right way."

"Did you steal the cake pans as well?"

Shirley added one last spoonful. "Don't think I didn't consider it. But ours should be alright. I just didn't know whether our teacups were the same size as this one."

"Very scientific of you," Carl agreed solemnly. "Can't you weigh out the amount now and write it down?"

"No. This sort of recipe goes by tradition, not writing."

"I see. Don't want to give away your culinary secrets?"

"I'll give you one," Shirley said, reaching for the scarlet tin tucked among the lemons. "In fact, it isn't a secret at all; it's a rule. In this house, _we will never use any baking powder but Rollings Reliable_."**

Carl scrutinized the bright label. "Not the blue kind?"

"Definitely not. And no unmarked tins, either."

"If you say so," Carl shrugged. "I doubt I'll do very much baking in any case."

"If we have time after the cake, I'll teach you to make biscuits," Shirley promised. "Those are easy enough and you can hardly mess them up as long as you don't forget the baking powder."

"Why, what does the baking powder do?"

"It's a leavening agent."

"A leavening agent?" Carl stopped whisking. "If this _Rollings Reliable_ is so wonderful, why am I over here stirring my arm off?"

A laugh bubbled up to Shirley's lips, spilling over when he offered, "Tradition?"

The priceless sugar was greatly imperiled when Carl's bowl clattered to the table. He drew a dishtowel from his apron string and used it to thwack a laughing Shirley, who did not attempt to dodge. Between them, Muggins danced in nervous agitation, not sure whether she had better intervene or focus her attention on the teetering eggs.

" _Tradition_ ," Carl groused, only slightly mollified by Shirley's unabated hilarity.

"If it's any comfort, those egg whites look just about done," Shirley said, wiping away a tear. "Why don't you turn them upside down to check?"

Tentatively, Carl retrieved the bowl and lifted it high, flinching as he upended it over his head. Much to his delight and Mugsy's sorrow, they held, even when Shirley applied a congratulatory kiss.

They stirred and measured, zesting lemons and greasing pans until the cake was ready for the oven. Shirley closed the iron door gently, explaining that they must walk softly for a while, lest they shake the cake and cause it to collapse.*** In the meantime, there were dishes to wash and ingredients to stow in the pantry, the red baking powder label conspicuous as a lit lantern at the front of the cupboard.

"Have you packed yet?" Shirley asked, unfastening his watch as he started in on the dishes.

"Mostly," Carl said, a little blush rising over an irrepressible smile.

Shirley rinsed the whisk, keeping his tone light and casual. "Are you excited?"

"Nervous, mostly."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Oh, they had talked. Ever since that first terrible night, they had talked and talked until Shirley was quite certain he had said more in two weeks than he had in the past two decades. There was no end of subjects to cover, from the demise of the _Snowdrop_ to Shirley's heartfelt ode to Mireille Cathelain to Carl's article, which Shirley had read under the pear trees one soft summer evening.

"Do you really mean to publish it?" he asked. "Under your own name?"

"I do," Carl had said resolutely. "At least I did."

"You should. It's wonderful."

Carl picked at the grass, letting the torn bits fall through his fingers. "If I do, I may not have a job for very long afterward."

"We'll get by," Shirley said with a nonchalance that Carl did not share.

"I won't publish it if it might cause trouble for you," he said quietly. "I only decided to write it because . . . well because it didn't really matter anymore, did it?"

Shirley had settled an arm around his waist and pulled him close for reassurance. "Don't give up on something that's important to you just because I'm not dead."

"But if the Department starts asking questions . . ."

"No," Shirley said tightening his hold. "The Department will do whatever they're going to do, but you don't have to be complicit by keeping quiet. Your work deserves to be read."

"But if the RCAF . . ."

"Let me worry about the RCAF. You worry about the proofreading."

"Are there typos?" Carl asked, blinking down at the typewritten pages in surprise.

Shirley laughed into his hair. "A few. I'll mark them if you like."

"Well it isn't a final copy," Carl said, flustered. "There are still a few citations I need to check. The Prince of Wales College library doesn't have all the journals I need, so I'll have to go down to Redmond in order to really finish it."

Which is how they started talking about Kingsport, which is how they started talking about Anthony.

"He's been an awfully good friend to me," Carl had said carefully. "I even thought . . . briefly . . . that maybe someday . . . we might . . . oh, forget about it."

Now that honesty was the order of the day, Shirley felt no compunction admitting that he was relieved. In the aftermath of the last war, Carl had insisted that he could not have gone on without Shirley, that losing him might have been the end of them both. It was a tremendous comfort to know that he had been wrong. Carl was no Calamos and no Achilles either, and would not have followed devotion down the well-worn pathways of those sad old stories. There were so many tales like that, where everyone had one true love, and only one, and was doomed to death or eternal despair if something went wrong. But love was a choice, not a destiny, and it was possible to imagine any number of happy endings. Without Shirley, Carl would have flourished, writing his articles and pursuing other chances at love. After all these years of holding on too tight, Shirley felt a wonderful sense of peace when he said,

"I don't think you should forget about it."

"What?"

"About Anthony. You should consider it."

"Be serious," Carl scoffed.

"I'm perfectly serious."

"About me and Anthony?"

Shirley had taken both of Carl's hands and turned to face him so that he could make his sincerity as clear as possible. "Kit. If I were really dead, what would you be doing right now? Would you be thinking about Anthony? Wondering if you should write to him? Maybe planning a visit?"

Carl had hesitated, but there were new rules beyond the veil and he had lifted his chin. "Yes. I probably would."

"Then consider it. Don't give him up just because I came back."

There was a moment of confusion in the deep blue eye, followed by an avian tilt of the head. "You know, if you really want me to pitch you that badly, you could have just said so the first day and saved me a whole lot of trouble."

One good thing about all the talking was that it really did get easier with practice. Before, Shirley might have stumbled in choosing the right words or held back out of an overabundance of caution. But they were days deep into a conversation that had alternately left them both weeping and giggling hysterically, sometimes interrupted by a a few hours' necessary solitude or an afternoon in bed, finding their way back to one another beyond words. Shirley had known Carl nearly his whole life, had known him better than he knew anyone or could ever know anyone, and still he felt that they had been newly introduced. It was the strangest thing, after all these years, to rediscover a friend.

"I'm not suggesting that we should call it quits," Shirley said simply. "I'm saying that if you and Anthony might make one another happy, you shouldn't throw that away just because I'm still kicking. Doesn't he have an understanding with Edith?"

"Yes. He does."

"You're sure?"

"He and I took his children to the park to watch the eclipse so that Edith could have a quiet evening with her beau."

"And they're happy?"

"Well, I'm not exactly sure how Edith feels about it," Carl conceded. "But it seems possible."

"And how do you feel about it? About seeing Anthony?"

"I don't know," Carl said honestly. "But I know I don't want to lose you again."

Shirley had squeezed his hands as best he could. "You won't. I've got so much work to do and this war doesn't seem like it's going to be over anytime soon. I'll write you letters — good ones — and visit when I can, but I have to give the RCAF all I've got for the duration. And meanwhile . . . we could have an understanding of our own. It would be a relief to think you were off having a good time with Anthony while I'm stuck doing paperwork. And afterward, well, I guess we'll just keep talking about things, won't we?"

"Really?"

"Really."

"And you're not just suggesting this to let your conscience off the hook?"

It was a fair point and Shirley did not dismiss it. "That could be part of it, I suppose," he said justly. "I'd hate to think of you sad and alone here, so yes, it would do my conscience quite a lot of good if you were neither."

"So I should start seeing Anthony to make you feel better about leaving?"

"No. You should consider it because you like him. There's no reason for what-ifs or wistful yearning or any of that."

Carl appeared to be giving the matter serious thought. Eventually, he said, "I don't even know if Anthony would be interested."

"Bet he would. He used to be pretty keen on you in college."

"How do you know that?"

"Used to watch you dance together, didn't I?"

"He might have someone else now. I don't know."

"Then go down to Kingsport and talk to him. It's all the rage these days, I hear."

The next day, Carl had sent a letter to Kingsport and received an answer by telegram so quickly that Anthony must have sprinted through the streets to send his reply. Then there was talking and more talking until Shirley began to have slight misgivings, not about negotiating an arrangement but about the amount of _process_ involved. But it was worth it to see Carl blushing now, half nervous and half excited about where the next bend in the road might lead.

"Are you really sure it's alright?" Carl asked for the dozenth time.

Shirley took the dirty mixing bowls from his hands and set them on the counter. "Look," he said patiently, "if you're hoping I'll say no because you don't really want to go and are looking for an out, you don't have go to Kingsport. But if you really want to know what I think, the truth is that I'm happy for you."

"Really?"

"Really."

The anxious lines in Carl's forehead eased, his voice gone soft as he hooked his fingers into the string of Shirley's apron. "I'll look forward to your letters."

"Probably just a lot of griping about sitting behind a desk all day."

"You'll be brilliant," Carl said, fingers creeping up the sides of the bib and toward Shirley's collar. "And I imagine you'll find some time to fly every now and then. Gotta keep an eye on those U-boats."

"I won't look over your shoulder. Promise."

Carl smiled as he rose up on his toes. "You know, when it comes to U-boat patrols, I think I'll allow it."

The kiss was soft and unhurried, flour-dusted fingers dancing along the side of Shirley's face. Two nights from now, the little yellow house would be dark and silent: Una off on her honeymoon, Carl checking into his Kingsport hotel, Shirley settling into his new quarters at Summerside. Even Mugsy would be on holiday, snoozing on the couch with Dr. Blythe down at the House of Dreams. But for right now, the kitchen was an oven-warmed oasis, air plummy with the aroma of baking wedding cake and the gentle lapping of Muggins at the egg bowl. Down beyond the pear ridge, the marshy places rustled in the summer breeze, sighing, though not with sorrow. Carl was real and here and now, both of them exactly where they were, either side of a kiss that opened and deepened until Shirley backed into the counter and set the dishes ringing.

"Sorry," Carl said against his lips. "You don't want to shake your cake."

Shirley drew his brows together in a passable imitation of consternation, ruined only by the unmistakable twinkle in the deep brown eyes. "Don't I?"

* * *

When Una lifted her bouquet of roses from the vanity, she noticed a lumpy little package wrapped in brown paper. There was a card underneath, the scalloped edges as dainty as slipper shells.

"Mother Blythe left that for you," Faith said through a mouthful of hairpins. "She's already gone to St. Elizabeth's to help the girls with the flowers, but she said you should open it before the ceremony."

If it had been up to Una, she and Daniel would have been married without a fuss, but that was hardly possible with Bishop Atwood having to come in from Kingsport to officiate a priest's wedding. St. Elizabeth's was all a-twitter and the Presbyterians of Glen St. Mary teetered between fascination and horror. Not a one of them would have missed it for the world, not even Mrs. Alec Davis, despite Jem's exasperated insistence that if she were well enough to attend a wedding, she should stop calling him to her deathbed every other day.

Everyone was welcome, of course, and they all wanted to contribute a little something. Nan had made several trips from Town with her pattern books and shears, helping Mary fit Una's new suit to a degree of precision that would have made Cornelia Elliott proud. Rilla had brought a pair of dainty shoes, both the same, with heels that were sensible enough to wear on ordinary Sundays, but smart enough to earn nods of approval all around. All the girls — Blythe and Meredith and Maylock and Ford — had spent yesterday scouring the summer countryside for tiger lilies and lupines while Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe worshipped baby James. Amelia Newgate had organized the potluck wedding supper, to be served on the feast day tables in the open air. Carl and Jerry had been overheard conspiring over something to do with Jenny, but had refused to fess up. Ceci had fretted over the dismal prospect of baking a cake on rationed sugar, but Shirley had smiled enigmatically and promised to handle it. A blossom here, a teaspoon there, and Una Meredith's wedding was shaping up to be the event of the summer.

"Mrs. Blythe's already been too kind to me," Una said, turning the package over in her palm. "We never would have found that cottage up the shore if she hadn't suggested it."

Rosemary took the comb from Faith's hand and began unravelling her uncertain efforts. "You'll have a splendid honeymoon, dearest. And when you come back, we'll have cleaned the rectory from top to bottom so that you'll have a fresh start."

In truth, the thought of being at leisure for an entire month was a bit daunting. Una had said as much to Faith when the subject first arose, protesting that she could never sit in a hotel for weeks on end doing nothing.

"You'll hardly be doing nothing," Faith had smirked, but she had dutifully conspired with Mrs. Blythe to find something more suitable. The little seaside cottage up near East Point was far enough away that they would not be disturbed by well-wishers, but still homey, requiring the newlyweds to make their own breakfasts and fluff their own pillows. When Una had asked Daniel whether it would suit him, he had smiled so warmly that Una's concerns about indolence melted away.

Now, she was sitting before the mirror on the morning of her wedding, watching Rosemary gather her long, straight hair into a soft roll along the nape of her neck. The strong blue of her wedding suit brought out the darker blue of her eyes and the roses in her lap were St. Elizabeth's: white and pink and red all mixed together. When the last strand was pinned in place, Una Meredith was as sweet a bride as Ingleside had ever seen.

"You'd better go on and open that," Faith said, craning her neck to look out the window. "Jem's bringing the car 'round now."

The note was written in Mrs. Blythe's tidy hand, black lines crisp against the creamy card.

 _Dear Una,_

 _I know that you have "new" and "blue" well covered, but I thought that perhaps you might need something "old" or "borrowed" to wear today. If you do, I'd like to offer you the loan of this brooch. It belonged to Marilla Cuthbert, who made a home for me when I needed one most._

 _With love and gratitude,  
_ _Anne Blythe_

*/*/*

Una Meredith had never entered St. Elizabeth's church without feeling alive to its beauty. In quiet moments, setting the altar or cleaning up after a service, she always seemed to find something she had never noticed before: a tiny bud sprouting from a mosaic vine, a variegated sunbeam that only existed once a year, the echo of one carved curve in another. As she walked up the aisle on her father's arm, there were many things she could have observed: the many smiling faces of the people who loved her, the dazzling splendor of Bishop Atwood in his most festive vestments, the mostly fluent organ music that attested to the many hours Mr. Allonby must have practiced.

Una did not notice them. Instead, all her attention was fixed on Daniel, waiting for her at the place where he once startled her into tripping over the lacy fringe of the fair linen cloth. The three intervening years had stolen enough of his hair that "thinning" would have been generous and he wore a civilian suit, but was otherwise unchanged, at least to look at. His open, round face would have been splitting in a jolly smile if he were not working so hard to maintain composure, the effort turning his cheeks apple-red. He was not tall nor dashing, and his kind, earth-brown eyes were not dreamy in any sense of the word. Instead, Daniel looked so pleased that it was a wonder that his shirt buttons hadn't popped and gone pinging into the pews.

It was easy to imagine they might. Perhaps they'd begin their married life scrounging around on the mosaic-tiled floor after buttons, scandalizing the bishop and all in attendance. The thought caught Una funny, so much so that she could not maintain any semblance of solemnity, no matter how she bit the inside of her cheek or crushed the stems of her roses. By the time she reached Daniel's side, her smile had escaped her control completely, spilling out in every direction like a golden nimbus. Love had come into her life after all and she had every right to her happiness.****

* * *

The mantel of the little yellow house was crowded with photographs. Some were studio portraits released from their wrappings, others were wrinkled snapshots tucked into the corners of frames. In pride of place at the center, a happy trio kept watch over the living room: Una in her wedding suit, Carl's bowtie askew above his tweed, and Shirley sharp in service dress. The photo had a twin in the parlor at the St. Elizabeth's rectory and a miniature that fit neatly into a wallet. Their happiness was their own, and they were not afraid.

* * *

Notes:

* _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 15, "Until the Day Break"

** _Anne of the Island_ , chapter 15, "A Dream Turned Upside Down"

***"I suppose my plunking down like that has shaken my cake so that it will be as heavy as lead." Susan, making Miranda Milgrave's wedding cake, _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 18 "A War-Wedding"

**** _Rilla of Ingleside_ , chapter 23, "And So, Goodnight"


	73. Epilogue: The Way We Danced Till Three

**The Way We Danced Till Three**

* * *

August 1969

* * *

The marquee on the Ingleside lawn was lit with a hundred paper lanterns, their pale orbs illuminating the vast canvas canopy and the dance floor below. A twelve-piece band with gleaming horns and white dinner jackets kept the dancers on their toes with the greatest hits of the previous half century while guests at tables along the perimeter laughed over slices of the flower-festooned cake ordered in special from Town. All around, the Blythe grin revealed itself in various guises on faces young and old, four generations gathered together to celebrate Rilla and Ken Ford's 50th wedding anniversary.

On the dance floor, Jerry and Nan were ably demonstrating a textbook-perfect rhumba to their astonished grandchildren. Gil and Rose Ford held their own, shimmying and swaying much to the mortification of their son Tom, who had retreated deep into a corner to talk sailing with his cousin James. Dellie Armstrong neé Meredith, dazzling in purple sequins, was showing off her most recent husband who, it must be admitted, was worth showing off.

Carl Meredith was enjoying himself hugely. Sylvia was not a very experienced dancer, but she was light on her feet and quick to learn. She looked half a girl in pink watered silk that fell in a straight line to her knees and no farther, grinning under glittering cat-eye glasses. Carl kept a firm hold on her hand as they wove among the other couples, twirling and laughing over their not-quite-matched steps.

They had nearly reached the edge of the floor when a sudden blur darted between them, stopping Carl short and nearly sending him toppling.

"Sorry, Uncle Carl!" gasped Bruce's son Calvin, stooping to scoop up a tiny, dark-haired Meredith. "He got away from us for a minute there."

"Which one is this?" Sylvia asked, grinning at the struggling toddler.

"Michael," Calvin grimaced. "His parents were off changing his sister out of a cake-related disaster and left this little rascal to me. Sorry to interrupt your dancing."

Carl waved away the apology. "No trouble at all. Besides, we could probably use a breather."

When Calvin and his protesting grandson melted back into the crowd, Carl offered Sylvia his arm.

"So many new babies these days," Sylvia observed as they skirted the perimeter of the dance floor. "I can hardly remember all their names."

Carl pointed his chin toward the place where Faith and Una sat cooing over the newborn tucked up in a young woman's lap.

"That's the newest one. James and Linda's little boy. Umm . . . Robert, I think."

"Not another James?"

"It's confusing enough already, isn't it?"

Sylvia laughed, a silvery sound that Carl never tied of hearing. It reminded him of cozy winter evenings at Aster House, listening to tales of Di and Sylvia's trips to Scotland and Italy and California over mulled wine and plates of Shirley's monkeyfaces.

"Are you having a good summer?" Sylvia asked, nodding her thanks for the iced lemonade Carl handed her. "Shirley must be glad to have Gil and Rose around."

"Yes, it's been lovely. They've been working hard to update the old House of Dreams, which gives Shirley something to do as well. Though I'm afraid Tom's not much help."

"No?"

"He's mad for sailing," Carl said, taking a glass for himself as well. "It's nice to have such an enthusiastic deckhand. I'm getting out on the water more this summer now that I have someone to help with the heavy hauling."

"And Shirley's keeping busy?"

Carl looked across the dance floor to the table where Shirley was chuckling along to one of Di's stories. Yes, he had been keeping busy alright, even if Carl wished he would leave the roof repairs to Gil and Tom. Shirley had turned seventy this past spring, but remained unconvinced that that was any reason to give up work requiring ladders. It was rather a sore spot for him. A decade ago, the mandatory retirement regulations for commercial pilots had cut short Shirley's career with Trans-Canada Air Lines despite his undiminished health and eyesight. Carl was sympathetic, knowing what it was like to have one's capacity doubted. Still, he was not wholly sorry to see Shirley grounded. After the war, Shirley had spent fifteen years flying for Trans-Canada, covering the short flights out of Charlottetown and sometimes the longer hauls to the States or across the Atlantic when he needed a change of scenery. But he had always come home to the little yellow house. They had both made the most of their freedom, but it was awfully nice to settle down as well.

"Yes," Carl said. "He's got plans for building a new plane when the kids go back to Toronto. Some sort of horse. Mustang, maybe?"

Sylvia shook her head fondly and retrieved an extra cup of lemonade. Carl followed suit and they wove through the crowd, nodding greetings to the various nieces and nephews and grand-nieces and grand-nephews who began to run together in a blur. What was Portia's middle boy's name again? And could that really be Ceci's little Deborah looking so grown up with her hair piled up high like that?

When they reached their table, Carl leaned over Shirley's shoulder and set the lemonade down in front of him. He would have liked to drop a kiss on the top of his head in greeting, but couldn't, not here at Rilla and Ken's party with everyone watching. Instead, he stood behind Shirley's chair, brushing against it ever so slightly while Sylvia took the seat beside Di.

"You looked like you were having fun out there," Shirley said, looking up over his shoulder.

"You should come join us," Carl countered. "I could teach you some of those new kicks . . ."

Shirley chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Might need something stronger than lemonade for that."

"How about you, Di?" Carl asked. "Care for a spin?"

Di was on the point of accepting when the bandmaster took the microphone and called for attention. A hush fell over the party, every head turning toward the dais.

"It's time for a very special dance," he said. "Can we please have the happy renewlyweds out here on the floor?"

There were whispers and shuffling as the crowd parted to let Rilla and Ken Ford through. They were radiant, Ken still tall and clear-eyed, though his dark hair had gone silver long ago, and Rilla, who had always liked a party dress, resplendent in her signature green. When the bandmaster said, "Fifty years!" the family broke into applause, with some of the grandchildren hooting and whistling their congratulations. Then the Fords turned to one another at the center of the floor. The bandmaster signaled the piano player for an opening riff and started in on a classic that made the bride of half a century giggle.

 _The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea_ . . .

For a full verse and chorus, Rilla and Ken showed that they could still foxtrot with the best of them. Rilla's skirt swirled around Ken's knees in sure-footed turns that drew admiring sighs from their audience, but the happy couple only had eyes for one another.

 _. . . the memory of all that; no, no, they can't take that away from me . . ._

"Alright, folks," the bandmaster said during an instrumental interlude. "I know there are some other couples out there that have been together a long time. If you've been married fifty years, come out and join the Fords on the floor."

Jerry and Nan needed no coaxing. Faith and Jem were a bit slower, but Jem handed his cane to Sam and leaned heavily on Faith for a few slow turns at the edge of the floor. They were joined there by Mary and Miller Douglas, somewhat hindered by Miller's prosthetic leg, along with the Milgraves and Grants.

"Do you still want to dance?"

Shirley had spoken softly, but Carl jumped all the same.

"What?"

"Dance. Do you want to?"

Carl looked down into deep brown eyes, ready to laugh off the suggestion, but was startled to see that Shirley wasn't kidding.

"We're fifty years, aren't we?" Shirley said. "Closer to sixty."

"Oh, be serious," Carl said with a little chuckle.

"I'm perfectly serious."

. . . _we may never, never meet again on the bumpy road to love_ . . .

The bandmaster was back, calling into the microphone, "Forty years! Any couples who have been married forty years, please take the floor."

Bruce and Agnes joined the dancers. A few decades ago, it would have been impossible for the Presbyterian minister to dance with his wife in public, but those sorts of rules were considered terribly old-fashioned nowadays, even in the crystalline Glen.

"Perfectly deranged, maybe," Carl muttered. "Did you fall off that roof and hit your head?"

"No."

"An apoplexy, then? Can you lift both your arms?"

"I'm not having a stroke," Shirley said with maddening imperturbability. "I just want to dance with you."

"I appreciate the sentiment."

"Is that a yes?"

"No."

. . . _still I'll always, always keep the memory of the way you wear your hat_ . . .

"Twenty-five years! Couples who have been married twenty-five years, please take the floor!"

An audible sigh riffled through the assembled family as Daniel and Una Caldwell stepped out onto the floor. Carl watched them wistfully, so very glad to see his sister still as happy as she had been on her wedding day.

Shirley was not distracted. "It's a whole new world, Kit. You've been an honest man all summer."

It was true enough. A year and a half ago, Prime Minister Trudeau had proposed an overhaul of the Criminal Code of Canada, declaring that there was _no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation_. One gentle day this past May, Shirley had baked an especially nice, _plummy, eggy, citron-peely_ cake for tea to mark the day when they were no longer felons. Carl had not been expecting it and had nearly choked at the first taste, which had amused Shirley to no end.

But there was a difference between the law and the real world. Parliament could do as it liked, but this was still Glen St. Mary. Besides, it was Rilla and Ken's party.

"We can't make a scene," Carl whispered, all desire to smile having drained away.

"Well, the Charleston's off the table, then."

"Very funny. We can't."

. . . _the way you hold your knife, the way we danced till three_ . . .

"Twenty years! If you've been married twenty years, come join us!"

"Why not?"

"Because," Carl said, watching Gil and Rose step onto the floor, followed by Sam and Zoe. "It's one thing to sit off in the corner together. But to get out there in the middle . . ."

Carl swallowed, looking around at the crowd, faces rapt as they watched the dancers. He did want to dance. In fact, he had a horrible suspicion that he might cry if he didn't. But the thing was impossible.

Shirley gestured toward the crowd.

"How many of them do you think are like us?" he asked.

"What?"

"All those kids and grandkids and now the great-grandkids coming along. There must be seventy-five of them at least. We can't be the only ones."

"I suppose not," Carl admitted. "Maybe one or two . . ."

"I count four at least," Sylvia piped up from across the table.

Shirley turned in his chair, the better to look Carl in the eye. His posture was casual, but there was something fervent in his gaze that held Carl fast.

"What would it have meant to you when you were a kid to see that you weren't alone?" Shirley asked. "To have someone show you that there wasn't anything wrong with you?"

For a long moment, Carl said nothing. It was hard to imagine. In his own childhood, he had never heard anything but condemnation and nasty jokes. That is, until fishing on the margins of pond-waters. And then there had been Di and Sylvia and then all the others at Redmond, and Anthony and Wilkie, the circle of friends and lovers widening ever outward until it began to feel that there had been a whole affirming world out there all along, even to the birds of the air and wild beasts of the field. Over the years, Carl had received many letters, some of them unsigned, first about his superclutch article and later, after he had quit the Department rather than submit to vile interrogation, about his book. Some of the letters had been point-by-point objections or vicious threats, but others had been words of gratitude from strangers. Carl saved the latter in a shoebox and tossed the former into the stove.

. . . _the way you changed my life, no, no, they can't take that away from me_ . . .

"It's meant everything," Carl murmured.

"Then dance with me."

He wasn't kidding, not at all, and Carl felt his own face softening into a nervous smile. "Are you sure you remember how?"

"I'll follow your lead," Shirley said, standing.

Carl looked up once more. Not at the paper lanterns, nor at the other couples, nor the dance floor stretching out before them. All he saw were Shirley's brown eyes, with their faint sparkle of amusement, and Shirley's broad palm, stretched out to him.

Carl took a deep breath, straightened his bowtie, and gave Shirley his hand.

* * *

Notes:

This year, 2019, marks 50 years since Canada officially decriminalized sex between men. That was neither the beginning nor the end of the LGBTQIA2S+ community's fight for rights under the law and acceptance in society, which continues today. Not forgetting individual happiness, which existed both before and since.

"They Can't Take That Away From Me" by George and Ira Gershwin (1937), debuted by Fred Astaire in _Shall We Dance_ (1937).

The characters Rob Blythe and Michael and Melissa Meredith are on loan from MrsVonTrapp's _Betwixt the Stars_. Go check out their adventures if you have not had the chance!

* * *

Thank you all so much for reading!

This has been such a long journey — a full year on this story (a year and a half if you count _Glen Notes_ and _Dispatches_ ). And after all that, this feels like . . . a decent first draft? I learned so much writing this story — both what to do and what NOT to do. There are threads/themes/subplots I wish I had never touched and others I know I will explore more fully in other ways in other stories. For now, I'm just going to rest for a while.

I want to thank the readers who have encouraged me with reviews and PMs. Since the very beginning of _Glen Notes_ , **Excel Aunt** , **oz diva** , and **Alinyaalethia** have been so incredibly generous with their time and friendship. Thank you for becoming friends as well as readers. I have so enjoyed hearing from all the wonderful readers out there, especially **Original McFishie** , **Jxuan** , **Lavinia Maxwell** , **NovemberRainbow** , **Catiegirl** , **VickyP16** , **NotMrsRachelLynde** , **CahillA** , **geekloverlz** , **Evaseawynd** , **stillpink** , **Andrea1984** , **Howl** , **Flavia** , **butterbee** , **Valda** , **AnneShirley** , **AnneNGil** , **tigmeyers** , **jJustadreamer** , **CorneliaElliott** , and **Marisa**.

 **Snowy**! If you are reading this, please try to send your link again! I'd love to see it!

Love to **samanthavimes** , who has read every word and lifted me up when I needed it most. More Di/Sylvia next time, I promise.

A special thanks to **kslchen** for your generosity in sharing research, ideas, and critiques. This story is better thanks to your input. I'll see you again in the 21st century.

 **MrsVonTrapp** : you deserve a producer credit here — this story wouldn't exist without you. Thank you for being a friend :) I pass these characters into your hands.

An extra special THANK YOU and *hugs* to **KatherineWithAC** and **Skybird**. All my love to you. I can't tell you how much your reviews meant to me. PM me anytime. Really, for any reason, writing-related or not — if you need somebody, I am here.

And that's that.

I'll be taking a break from writing for a while to recharge and catch up with my reading. Look for 21st-century Blerediths coming your way sometime in the summer. Probably. Maybe. We'll see.

Love,

elizasky


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